


remember me, i sing

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: non-human Jaskier [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Demi-god Jaskier, Families of Choice, Friendship, Jaskier is now a god, Justice for renfri, M/M, Original god characters - Freeform, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Slow Burn, canon compliant up to a point, everybody has a lot of emotions, everybody is flawed and that's okay, it's my fic and I get to decide who gets resurrected, soul mates by choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25181962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: As he prepares to leave the mountain and Geralt behind, Jaskier finds out that he's not quite human. Instead, he's a demi-god, and the path to godhood lies before him. It's a bad idea, but when has that ever stopped him? (Besides, it's not like he's needed here...)Meanwhile, Geralt is on Jaskier's trail, intent on making amends.But the road is rarely kind, and Destiny has its sights set on them...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: non-human Jaskier [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946
Comments: 768
Kudos: 1039
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Just.... So cute..., The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi!  
> so, this is gonna be a long one. tags will update as a i go along, mostly to keep some surprises hidden, and i'll of course warn in the AN's if there are any warnings to beware of. i'll also be adding more character tags as i progress, because again: some of them will be a surprise (hopefully) (but you can probably guess who they are).

Jaskier goes through all five stages of grief in just a few short minutes. Okay, maybe only four stages. Three. Or, you know… maybe it’s just two. He gets stuck on ‘anger’ and makes himself at home.

He wipes at his eyes and vows that he’ll shed no tears over the Witcher. How dare he. How fucking dare he? Geralt can take his woe-is-me attitude and shove it up his fucking ass. Jaskier is _done_ shovelling _anything._

Is Jaskier to blame for the Child Surprise? No, he is not, thank you very much. Had he asked the fool to claim the Law of Surprise in Cintra _right after they’d witnessed what such a claim could bring_? No! And the djinn? Jaskier had been an innocent bystander! Who, exactly, had ended up nearly dead? Jaskier, that’s who. Who had had the wishes? Geralt, the useless turnip. And he blames Jaskier, as if he was the one fumbling his words and wishes? _I think the fuck not._

(It’s hard to breathe because he’s furious—and no other reason.)

Jaskier is going to get off this mountain and go to the coast and be merry, and when Geralt comes crawling back, he’s going to make him beg on his knees, ohoho, how the mighty will fall. Jaskier is done putting up with his mercurial temper. It was worth it when they were friends (were they ever really friends? _I was his friend_ ), but now? He has too much self-respect to be crying over a man who sees him as less than dirt.

(And if his heart is breaking, that’s between Jaskier and the gods.)

He doesn’t need Geralt. He’ll make his way from here without him, just you watch. He’ll write new songs, settle at a court somewhere, maybe go to Cintra just to spite Geralt. That’ll teach him. If Geralt gathers the guts to apologize, he’ll have to do so in plain view of his Child Surprise. Let him stew in all his mistakes.

(It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts,_ but fuck it.)

Jaskier is so incensed that he doesn’t notice Borch falling into step with him until the dragon speaks: “A moment of your time, lad?”

Jaskier’s first instinct is to tell him to go fuck himself. If Borch had only kept his mouth shut, if he’d just let Geralt and Yennefer tear each other apart in their own time, then the entire pile of shit wouldn’t have fallen on Jaskier next. Why did he have to meddle? Is he an oracle? Is that intrinsic to dragons, or a skill they acquire as they age? Jaskier has never heard of it (but as has been previously demonstrated, Jaskier’s knowledge of magic and monsters is lacking. He’s not going to let that stop him.)

Still, he has enough wits left to know that you do not insult a dragon directly to his face if you want to keep living, so instead of saying any of this, Jaskier tells Borch, “Say your piece. It’s not like I can stop you.”

The benevolent expression on Borch’s face makes Jaskier want to throw himself off the mountain. “Do not judge the Witcher too harshly. It is always tumultuous to realize that your Path is not what you had thought.”

“Ah, yes, the Path! The infamous Path, trod by Witchers who do not feel and do not want for anything or anyone, except that’s a whole lot of horseshit, so please, spare me, Borch, I beg you, and don’t defend him. He’s said all that needs to be said.”

“He has spoken only in anger. Words spoken thusly may have a grain of truth, but rarely can they be trusted in full.”

As if Jaskier doesn’t know this. As if he and Geralt have not butted heads a hundred times before, as if they don’t both know exactly where to hit to make it hurt, as if they haven’t learned not to go for the soft underbelly of each other’s insecurities. Jaskier could take the disparaging of his musical talents, the growled ‘fuck off’s, and denials of their friendship as long as Geralt still turned to him at the end of the day, still made space for Jaskier to walk by his side.

He _knows_ Geralt, alright? He’s known him for twenty-two years. There’s a lot he’s willing to let go without apology, but this? This is the last straw. “If he didn’t want to say them, he would’ve growled and _hmm_ ed and stalked off. Trust me on this; Geralt knows how to hold his tongue.”

They’re back at the campsite now. The dwarves are packing up their things. They glance curiously at Jaskier and Borch, but do not approach, perhaps sensing the tension. Not that it is well concealed; the upheaval on Jaskier’s face could outshine the sun itself. 

Jaskier heads straight for his bedroll and starts pulling his things together with jerky movements. The sooner he gets off this mountain the better; if he has to share the walk down with Geralt, he might do something even more foolhardy than following the Witcher to the end of the world in the first place. It’s a small blessing that Yennefer is already gone, or Jaskier might be the one doing a bit of yelling.

(It’s easy to blame her. It’s easy to blame Borch.)

“You feel so strongly,” Borch observes, as if Jaskier is a new species he’s never seen before.

“Yes, well, someone has to make up for one half of the duo being an unfeeling bastard,” Jaskier mutters, complete with agitated air quotes around ‘unfeeling’.

Borch, entirely unbothered by the amount of attitude he’s being served, seats himself on a nearby rock and watches Jaskier calmly. “You’re young yet, little Godling. In a few years, you’ll have learned to endure the hurt. But that—why are you looking at me like that?”

Jaskier has frozen and is blinking up at Borch. “What did you call me?”

Borch blinks back. “Godli—oh. Oh, shit.”

*

“This is another first,” Borch mutters as Jaskier has a meltdown.

Or, well, not a meltdown. He’s totally fine. It’s all good. Yup, he totally suspected that he wasn’t fully human, no surprise there at all, uh-uh, he’s sharp like that, saw it coming from a mile off. He’s not spent the past forty-one years believing himself to be mortal, not at all. (He may have noticed that he didn’t age quite like everyone around him, but he’d put that down to living well and possibly some unacknowledged Elvish ancestry, not fucking _divinity_.)

(There are no crow’s feet anywhere near his gorgeous face, _Yennefer_.) 

(At least this explains why he’s always looked so much like his mother and not even a little bit like his father. Explains the cold glances, and the title that wasn’t passed to him, the oldest son; it even explains why his mother looked at him like a stranger sometimes, perhaps tracing the features of her lover in his face.)

But divine origins? _Please_. Jaskier may have a taste for glory and he’s not nearly as humble as he pretends in his songs, but he’s not so vain as to trust _that_ claim without proof. He bleeds, he knows hunger, he shits, and fucks, and hurts like any other man. Where is this supposed divinity? He’s not stronger, not faster, not smarter (well, maybe smarter, but that has as much to do with his education as anything else. He has a natural disposition toward cleverness, sure, but he’s worked hard to hone it, just as any human must. You think he came out the womb spouting poetry and playing the lute? He practiced until his voice grew hoarse, until his fingers bled and callouses formed. Those are his battle scars.)

“I think I’d have known if I were a god,” he says (yells), waving his arms.

“ _Demi_ -god.”

“What the fuck ever! Point is, I’m pretty sure I would’ve known! You think I would’ve been walking around like this if I had that kind of power? You think I wouldn’t be ensconced in a castle with a slew of adoring fans? You think Valdo Marx would’ve survived our first meeting if I’d had the power to smite his pompous arse?”

“I am not mistaken,” Borch maintains, unimpressed.

“Break it down for me, then. Where is your proof?”

Borch huffs a breath. “Dragons see more than what is visible in this world. A holdover from the Conjunction of the Spheres, I suspect. Beneath your cloak of humanity, there’s a spark—faint, but obvious when you know what to look for, and I’ve seen it before. My only mistake was to assume you were on your Path already, not ignorant of it even existing.”

“Right. Right, let’s say I believe you, first: why wouldn’t Ge—a Witcher have noticed? Not just by skill, but because their medallion would have reacted to that spark?”

Borch waves his hand. “Witchers are for monsters, not for gods, and so are their tools.”

“Mhm, mhm, so. What Path?” Jaskier wants nothing to do with any Path. Paths are prisons, no better than Destiny. Shit. What about Destiny? “Is there any way for me to avoid this?”

“The Path of Gods is not known to beings such as I; I only know that there are trials to overcome to reach it. Did you think it would be that easy? We’d have more wars than already is if every demi-god were born with their gifts. You must prove yourself worthy.” He pauses. For someone who claims not to know much, he sure does talk a lot. “As to whether you can avoid this… there is a choice. This Destiny is a forked path.”

Jaskier claps his hands. “Great! That’s all I needed to know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, and I don’t expect I’ll see you again.” He turns and leaves.

For once, Borch is gobsmacked. “You’re not going to seek out—”

“Nope! No offense to Destiny, of course, but I’ll take my good self and be free of it, and the Divine Path or whatever can go to hell, for all I care. I’m enough as I am.”

*

Jaskier trudges up the path to Melitele’s temple without a shred of shame.

It took just one request of _Toss a Coin,_ and he was out the door. For all that talk about being enough in himself, he’s well aware that much of his fame stems from being ‘the Witcher’s bard’. He’d thought his extensive repertoire of non-Witcher related songs and ballads would’ve been enough to tide him over, but nooo. Not even his newest ballad _Her Sweet Kiss_ (okay, that’s about Geralt, too, but it doesn’t explicitly say that, so fuck off with your logic) was enough to please the crowd.

They were all ‘White Wolf this’ and ‘Geralt of Rivia that’ and ‘where’s the Witcher? Have you brought him? Is he far? We want to see him’ and not because they had any troubles, but because twenty years of Jaskier improving his reputation has made Geralt more of a curiosity than an outright monster. Oh, he still gets wary glares and cold shoulders, but he rarely gets spit at or stoned anymore. (And who made that happen? Jaskier did.)

So hang his integrity and bury it in an unmarked grave. Jaskier is on to better things, _bigger_ things, out to claim a Destiny no one would’ve ever thought was possible. His successes will not hinge on Geralt’s influence anymore, and when people ask about him next, they won’t spare Geralt a thought, because they’ll be praying to Jaskier.

(Jaskier might spare Geralt a thought even then. He’s never been good at letting go.)

Offhandedly, he wonders whether it makes any difference that he’s not heading for the temple of his father. Not that he knows who his father is. The Nordling pantheon is vast and includes deities both major and minor, continental and local. Hell, there’s even the saints, whose cults are as important in some kingdoms as those of the fully-fledged gods. 

But Melitele’s temple was the closest one, and he just didn’t have the patience to go through the gods one by one, or even know how figure out his parentage. He does list the various gods as he walks, though, discarding those he feels are less likely to have sired him, like Aesculapius, the god of medicine and healing arts. He supposes Kreve could be a contender, as the god of energy and spontaneity; Jaskier sure has a lot of that.

It may even be Vaska, the Keeper of the Crossroads, though Jaskier isn’t quite as familiar with this god. Even the god’s gender is a source of mystery to him; he’s heard worshippers call upon ‘him’ but also upon ‘her’, and others use ‘they’ to denote them. Could be his sire, maybe.

He’ll find out in time.

It’s nearly dark by the time he arrives at the temple of Melitele. It is a large, old building, made of roughhewn stone with many a section that has been added much later as the temple and congregation grew. If there’s one cult you can trust to survive, it’s Melitele’s; as the goddess of women, childbirth, and peace, she’ll always have devoted worshippers. (Her name’s great for cussing, too.)

(Will he have to stop doing that?)

He knocks on the door and waits.

The priestess who greets him is an older woman, her hair grey, her face lined. There’s a core of strength to her, though, visible in the way she holds her head high and meets his gaze unflinchingly. It’s also clear that she is not impressed by him.

“You wish to pray to the goddess?” she repeats, eyeing him shrewdly. “At this hour?”

“Yes.”

“… is this about a mistress? Such prayers are reserved for the daylight hours.”

Jaskier doubts that that is an official rule, but he’s not going to argue with her. She must have seen a lot of repentant men begging the goddess to keep their wives from finding out about their mistresses or perhaps even their bastards. If Jaskier were a priest here, he’d probably institute such a rule himself. “It’s not about a mistress. I’m purely here on my own behalf.”

She eyes him some more, but finally lets him in with a shrug.

She leads him to the inner sanctuary in silence. Here and there, Jaskier spots another priestess watching them, likely a precaution they take when strange men come a-knockin’ at odd hours. Violating anyone in a temple is the height of stupidity, but then, there are many stupid men in the world; Jaskier can’t fault the priestesses for being suspicious.

At the doorstep to the sanctuary, she leaves him. “If you wish to stay the night, there are dormitories across the courtyard; if the door is open, the room is free. If you wish to leave, I shall return here in half an hour and escort you out.”

“Thank you.”

He approaches the shrine and then stands around uselessly for a while. Maybe he should have brought an offering? Jaskier isn’t the praying type. As a child, he’d sometimes accompanied his father to Dana Meadbh’s sanctuary, but she was a goddess of the wild and the wild was her abode; he doubts they are worshipped the same.

He stares up at the painted face of Melitele and sighs. No use getting nervous now. What’s the worst that could happen?

“I am Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he says, voice echoing. “Known as Jaskier—or Dandelion in the south. Bit of a translation error that one, but no matter. I’ve come to claim my inheritance.”

The wind whistles outside the windows.

And nothing happens.

“Hello? Hellooooo. Excuse me. Lady Melitele? Your Grace? Divine Mother? Can you hear me? I said—”

Nothing happens and nothing keeps happening. Jaskier tries kneeling, tries throwing himself at the feet of the statue, tries yelling and whispering and singing, and nothing. fucking. happens. Finally, he collapses on the floor, sweaty and slightly hoarse and more than a little pissed off. Had Borch been playing with him? Or is he simply doing this wrong?

“How the fuck else am I supposed to do it?” he mutters petulantly. “Will you please just let me in, damn it?” He gets back on his feet—

And the world explodes into light.

*

_Days ago…_

Geralt makes it only a few miles from the mountain. There’s anger in him still, and hurt, and heartbreak, and a hundred other things he’s so used to forcing down until they choke him or go away, but the guilt is by far the worst of all.

The road is quiet but for him and Roach, and the silence pierces him like knives. He should be used to this; he’s travelled plenty on his own in the last twenty years, and before that, he was almost always alone. And yet…

He made a mistake on the mountain. He knows it, even if he hates admitting it. A _lot_ of mistakes. He shouldn’t have said those things to Jaskier. He can’t yet admit that most of them weren’t true; for now, he still needs to place the blame somewhere else. But deep down, he knows he’s the one who fucked it all up, just like he’s always done when it really matters.

With a grunt and a sigh, he turns Roach back around. Yennefer is lost to him, and with her, any chance of love (that foolish want, so stupid, why had he even tried?) In her, he’d seen echoes of himself, fire and anger and sheer bloody-mindedness, the way he’d been when he was younger. (Fuck, it feels like forever ago.) He’d thought: _here’s a woman who’ll never fear me_. _Here’s a woman who won’t ever back down._

So, he’d made that wish, hadn’t thought it through, had just panicked, and then, he’d let himself hope. He’d just wanted a chance, not a sure thing, but a _chance_. What a fool he was. It wasn’t meant to come to this, wasn’t meant to take away Yennefer’s choice. He didn’t know it had—it makes him sick to think that any part of this could’ve been forced. He’d just wanted something true. Fucking djinns.

But Jaskier…

Maybe it’s not too late to mend that bond. If they could just go back to the way they were, maybe the Path won’t seem so empty. Useless and unending. (Geralt was never supposed to need anyone. _And yet, here we are._ ) But Jaskier isn’t here, and that’s on Geralt.

He’ll make it right. If he can make just this one thing right…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life happened, had to take a wee break from writing. but here we are!

Jaskier is pretty sure he’s not in the temple anymore, even though he’s also sure that he hasn’t moved an inch. There’s still solid ground beneath his feet, but it also feels like he’s falling upwards. Like someone grabbed him by his non-existent umbilical cord and yanked, and now he’s tumbling head over heels into the sky.

His eyes are closed. He can hear voices, but not human voices; most seem close, but not right next to him. In another room, perhaps. They are arguing.

But one voice is next to him, and it is so full of love. “Fear not, child.” It nearly buckles his knees and hollows out his chest; beneath the love, there is determination, sternness, gentleness, shrillness. It is soft, scratchy, soothing, sharp. Not just one voice, but the voice of thousands. (Did it work? Is that what this is?) “You are safe. Do not open your eyes yet, there is—”

Jaskier opens his eyes wide, makes a sound like “ _AaiEEEEEEEEE”,_ and promptly slams them shut again, head pounding. Now that’s what the poets call a ‘bad fucking decision’.

“ _What did I just say_?” A hand (or is it a single, giant finger?) strokes across his hair. “For fuck’s sake, kid.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier says through the splintering pain in his head; he didn’t even get to see anything, just blistering, white light. If he’s dead, he’s going to be very, _very_ put out. “Sooooo. Where am I, exactly? And when is the spinny, ouchie thing going to stop?”

“You are in the Hall of the Gods,” the voice says.

It worked. It fucking _worked_. “Melitele’s tits.”

“Well, that’s a bit forward of you, young man,” the voice (Melitele) says, not sounding particularly affronted as much as amused. (Jaskier should feel stronger about having just spoken about Melitele’s tits to her face, but he’s in too much shock to feel much of anything right now except disbelieving glee that it _worked_.) “But I’ll forgive it just this once. And the ‘spinny, ouchie thing’ is going to stop in a few moments, you just need to relax a bit. Your sight should be starting to adjust, too.”

Right. He’ll just get right on that. He’s calm. Calm as still waters. There’s no reason to be unmoored, it’s not like he popped into the Hall of the Gods or anything, totally normal, must be Tuesday. He breathes deep and listens to the bickering. (God-voices are… certainly something. (If his own voice becomes anything like that, he will pitch a fit that’ll go down in history. You do not mess with perfection.))

He’s still dizzy, so he plops himself down on the floor, not caring how it looks. Screw being strong, he just wants to not puke in front of a goddess who may or may not be his ticket to divinity. (There is a slight—miniscule, really—chance that he should’ve looked into what he was signing up for; he’s got no idea what happens now. Trials, maybe?). He’s just going to lie down on his back, that sounds like a good idea. Just lie down right here, that’s the ticket. It’s pleasant down on the floor; the hall is warm and filled with the hot smell of fire and wood. It feels almost homey. 

Melitele stays by his side. Jaskier should possibly be a bit more in awe of that fact, but he’s feeling so much that it’s all starting to blur together. Proper respect will have to wait. His headache has started to subside, and his stomach feels like it wants to stay inside his body again.

“Try opening your eyes now. Just a peek to start with, mind,” she says.

This time, Jaskier opens his eyes one at a time, squinting at the ceiling. Timber beams, well-made and old, but well-kept. Not particularly divine-looking. As his head doesn’t explode with renewed pain, he dares to glance around. He’s less in the Hall of the Gods and more in the Hallway of the Gods; the Hall itself is behind the richly-carved doors across from him, closed to mute the ongoing argument taking place inside.

He turns to Melitele. And gapes. Now _there’s_ the divinity he was missing.

She is easily thrice his height, a giant of a woman. She does not have a single face, but multiple faces patchworked on top of one another, each one familiar to him; a professor he had been tutored by at Oxenfurt and had liked a great deal, even mourning when she passed; a woman who’d been kind to him when he was just setting out as a bard, inviting him to sleep in her barn and feeding him in the morning; even his old nanny, grouchy, stern lady that she was. The faces of all the mother-figures who have ever touched his life stare down at him from a single head, and most tellingly of all, his mother’s face isn’t among them.

“There we go, sweetling,” she says, helping him to his feet the way you’d help a toddler. There’s strength in her touch, not just divine; an earthly sort of strength, of rough hands that cradle children lovingly, that put food on the table, that bandage wounds. These are not the hands of a pampered noble. It strikes him as odd; why would a goddess have work-worn hands? “Not too fast now.”

Jaskier can’t stand looking at her (why? Is it her grace? Her power? Something in her bids him look down), but he can’t look away either. She doesn’t look human, but because _he_ is human, his mind understands her as human-shaped. Perhaps because he is eager to see his own being mirrored in her somehow, or because it is the only way for him to understand what he sees. He doubts that a purely human mind could trace the shapes of all that she is, and he is half human.

But he is half god, too, and so he spots forms in her that should not be forms, for they are not physical things, but _concepts_. In Melitele, there is the desperate strength of the birthing bed, the relentless toil of a homemaker, and the excited tremble of a young bride. She is old and she is young and she is middle-aged, and she holds him captive with nothing but a look.

She smiles benevolently at him. “Take your time.”

“I’m completely fine,” Jaskier swears. His voice cracks. It is not allowed to do that while he’s lying his ass off to a goddess, damn it. 

“It’s alright, sweetling. We are not in a hurry.”

*

Jaskier takes the offered respite shamelessly, to gather his bearings and summon the courage that had led him to the temple in the first place. It takes a while, but he gets there. You do not travel with a Witcher for twenty years only to keel over at the first unexpected thing. That’s a good way to get dead, and despite Destiny’s best attempts, Jaskier remains very much alive.

He eyes the door with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. The argument is really getting on. Jaskier loves drama that he is not at the centre of, and he desperately wants to watch the chaos unfold. It sounds _glorious._ But he decides to do the wise thing and take stock. “I assume we’re going in there? Why?”

“We do,” Melitele confirms. “It is customary to present yourself and your purpose before the assembled gods before your trials are set.”

“This happens enough for there to be customs?” interesting. He feels a song blooming. That’s going to have to wait. Then, before Melitele can answer, he asks, “Will my father be there, too?”

Melitele looks at him for a moment. It feels like she’s not just looking at his face and judging his intentions, but rather that she’s reading the lines of his soul. Who knows, maybe she is. (Jaskier wants to see his soul. He imagines it will be bright and sharp and lovely.) “How much do you know of your roots?”

“Well. A dragon told—”

“A dragon,” Melitele interrupts, throwing her hands up. “Every day I’m thankful that I don’t have to watch over those bastards. You’d think they thought they were gods with the way they’re carrying on, but no, they’re just very annoying. Sorry, dear, go on.”

“Right. A dragon told me—” And Jaskier relays the whole tale. He probably relays more than he needs to. There is definitely a fair bit cussing out a certain Witcher, then remembering that that’s not the point, only to get delayed by another complaint about said Witcher.

Melitele listens intently, completely ignoring the rabblerousing from the Hall of the Gods. Sounds like someone is slap-fighting and the rest are just cheering them on. Jaskier wants to see it _so bad._ “So, you don’t actually know anything,” she summarizes, which… _rude_ , but fair.

Jaskier shrugs. “Eh, I’ve done worse with less information.”

She sighs and pushes her hair behind her ears (or is she stealthily rubbing her temples? Sneaky goddess.) “At least it won’t be boring. But, for propriety’s sake, let’s take it from the top.”

She lays it out quickly and efficiently. Jaskier will be presented to the gods, and a god will be chosen to guide him. Usually, that god is his divine parent (the way she says ‘usually’ makes Jaskier think that she knows exactly who his father is and isn’t too keen on it). He will choose what kind of godhood he’s striving for and the tasks will be adjusted to reflect that choice, though some are ‘standard’ tests of will, strength, or endurance.

“There are seven tests,” she says. “And you will have to pass all of them.”

“What happens if I don’t pass?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, sweetling.”

Lovely.

*

Though Jaskier would prefer to make a dramatic entrance, the doors to the Hall are too heavy for him to slam open on his own. Instead, he’s relegated to toddling after Melitele as she strides in, their appearance having no effect on the ruckus in the Hall.

It leaves him plenty of time to stare and stare he does.

The Hall is grand and stately, less homey than the hallway had been, almost more like a courtroom than a banquet hall. The gods are seated around a central hearth, their chairs arranged in tiers. No one chair is alike, carved to fit the god perched in it. Melitele’s chair is deep and comfortable, and she offers him a seat on her foot stool, the only place he can reach on his own. It’s a tad humiliating, but better than if she’d offered to seat him on her knee like a baby.

(Besides… one day soon, he’ll have his own chair, his own _place_ , in the Hall.)

The gods tower pitilessly above him in their semi-human, semi-divine forms. He watches beings that embody the roaring depths of the ocean, the bloodied battlefield, the silence of death, and the whispers of the forest. He can tell god from goddess only because they wish him to, and he can understand their tongue because his blood keeps him from being torn apart by the unearthly noise.

“Best let them get it all out before we start,” Melitele says, not making a move to calm the bickering crowd. “We rarely gather like this, there’s always much to discuss.”

‘Discuss’ is not the word Jaskier would use, but he’s too amazed to comment. At that moment, a goddess who seems to be purely made of battle-mad ravens hauls off to slap a man-shaped mountain, sending the god staggering back and roaring. The crowd around them cheer.

Out of habit, Jaskier turns to throw a quip at Geralt—

Only to remember that he isn’t there, and that Jaskier shouldn’t care about that.

To distract himself, he turns his attention back to the gods and searches for commonalities in their features. Might one of them have his eyes? His nose? Yes, he’s well aware that it’s a futile effort considering that, well, they don’t have faces in the way that humans do, but he needs something, _anything,_ to keep his mind off silver hair and yellow eyes.

“Is that my father?” he asks Melitele, indicating a god who seems more animal than man, his head that of a wolf.

“That is not your parent, no,” Melitele says in a measured tone that Jaskier doesn’t make too much note of. (In hindsight, he definitely should’ve).

“Is that my father?”

“No, that is not your parent.”

“Is that—”

At that point, Melitele has had enough. She thumps the arm of her chair, the sound echoing through the hall despite the noise. The gods settle down, oddly quickly for have ferociously they’d been arguing just a second ago.

“The right of blood has been called,” she says. “The Trials will commence. A guide is needed.” She turns her face to the left, and Jaskier tries to follow her gaze. “Tisigaeto, what say you?”

At the top tier, a goddess rises to her feet. She is tall, lean, and stately; she seems to be made of bright fire, and her fingers are clawed. Wings rise from her shoulders, many, many wings of all kinds, wings of eagles, bees, and bats. Several gods lower their gaze rather than watch her walks past.

Jaskier knows her name, if only faintly. Tisigaeto, the Goddess of Vengeance and Wrath, Lady of Justice and Balance. He wonders why Melitele has called on her; perhaps to sanction the Trials?

The goddess’ eyes rest briefly on Jaskier. They are very blue. When she speaks, her voice shakes the foundations of the earth. “I have much to say, Great Mother, but I have said it many times before. My words were not heard then, and they will not be heard now.”

“I take it she’s not in favour of me?” Jaskier mutters under his breath. Not that he can blame her; Jaskier doubts any righteously inclined god has much interest in him, except maybe to offer him scathing reviews of his ethics. It’s fine. Righteousness is not really his area. He’s more of a ‘revelry and hedonism this way comes’ kind of guy.

Still, it stings when she says, “I will not stand with him.”

“You have nothing more to add?” Melitele adds. Is her voice softer than it was before? “No words of advice for your son?”

Her what now.

*

Jaskier has a mother. Well, obviously he knew he had a mother, but he has a _second_ mother. A second mother who is responsible for half his inheritance and… honestly, he doesn’t know how the fuck any of this works and trying to picture his mother—the human one—in any kind of baby-making situation makes him a little ill, so he should probably focus on something else.

Like the fact that his divine mother (and again: the fuck) feels nothing for him except distaste, which, well. He can’t say that was unexpected. She left him, after all. Before he was even born. (Which, pardon him, but that seems a very not-righteous thing to do, but like hell is he going to question her. (He is, he is so going to question her. He might as well wave goodbye to his life, she does not look like a goddess who likes being questioned.))

Despite having expected a certain amount of detachment from his absentee godly parent, watching her turn her back on him in the Hall feels… horrible. Like she’s gutting him in front of an audience. A person he’s never met, and already she’s got sway over his emotions. But then, hasn’t he always been like that? Loved too easily and too fast. Never thought it’d be this kind of love, though, and that’s maybe the worst of it all.

Things are being said, but they go in one ear and out the other. It’s not until another god approaches him that Jaskier starts paying attention.

“I’ll stand with him,” the god says. Or is it ‘goddess’? Jaskier can’t tell. The form of this divinity is never still. He cannot even describe them—and that’s when it hits him. This must be Vaska. Keeper of the Crossroads, Guardian of the Unexpected and Extraordinary. Their voice is pleasant, husky and smooth at once, a contradiction; like Melitele’s, it carries the echoes of many others, high and clear, as well as deep and booming. 

(Is it right to call Vaska ‘them’? Jaskier will have to ask.)

Melitele nudges him gently. He’s missed something. “Sorry?”

“What will be your calling?” she repeats. “What do you wish to be the god of?”

This, at least, he does not need to think about. He was a bard before he was anything else. (He was a bard when everything changed. Fucking Geralt.) “Music.” Pause. “Or songs, maybe? Stories. Lyrical adventures? There’s a lot to choose from, can I only choose one?”

“For now, one is enough. The rest will come in time,” Melitele explains without actually explaining anything. She turns to face the gods again. “It begins.”

“It begins,” they echo.

Jaskier has eyes only for his mother, who is back in her seat. She meets his gaze calmly, looking neither pleased nor displeased with the proceedings. She simply watches it all happen as if it has nothing to do with her, and Jaskier sits up straighter, grits his teeth.

He’ll show her.

(Maybe he should start keeping a list of people to prove wrong, seems like he’s collecting them these days. Valdo Marx is going on it at least four times.)

*

_In another place…_

Jaskier was in this tavern. Geralt can still smell him. He’d left quickly, though; he’s scent lingers only by the bar and near the small, cleared space in the middle of the floor. From there, a sudden rush of peevishness had taken him, the smell of it astringent and sharp, leading him from the tavern.

Geralt heads out.

The trail, poor as it is in this weather, at least sticks to the main road, proving that while Jaskier is foolish, he isn’t stupid enough to traipse through the wilderness alone. The scent grows faint in places, almost disappearing, but Geralt follows the road north, and eventually, the trail picks back up.

He finds himself at the Temple of Melitele before dark.

He eyes the structure warily. Jaskier was never a religious man, and nor would he find any company in there that he might find pleasurable. (Or maybe he would. Hell knows the man has never met a person he wouldn’t like to woo, why should priestesses be any different? Hopefully, he hasn’t been thrashed by a high priestess for sullying her congregation.)

Geralt knocks and is received by an older woman. Her eyes widen a bit to see him at her doorstep, but it’s surprise rather than fear, and for that, he is thankful. Better to be unexpected than unwelcome.

“I’m looking for a bard,” he says. “His name is Jaskier. He’s a—he’s my… friend. He’s my friend.” He’s not sure he has the right to call Jaskier ‘his’ anything anymore. But better this lie—this _hope_ —or she might turn him away.

She can’t tell him much, but what she does tell him puzzles him. “He stopped here to pray,” she says. “I led him to the sanctuary myself, told him to make use of the dormitories if he needed it, or to wait for me to see him out of he didn’t. But when I returned, he was nowhere to be found. No one saw him leave. The sanctuary appeared undisturbed. We don’t know where he went.”

He thanks her for her help anyway. It pays to be on the good side of the Temple; they have good healers and are quite tolerant of his presence as long as he doesn’t disturb them too much. Other Witchers come crawling to them, too, and Geralt will not be the Witcher to get them all banned just because his wayward bard isn’t with him.

He mounts Roach. Something in him hums—a sixth sense he’s learned to heed. It tells him that all is not what it seems, and it urges him to keep moving. He’ll follow the road, stop at taverns and inns. Jaskier will be where the people are. He _must_.

Geralt mutters at Roach, “He’s doing something stupid.”

She flicks an ear at him.

“I just _know_.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, updates on this is gonna be a wee bit slower than what i'd been able to do with the shorter fics, not just because there's more plot to keep track of, but because i've got a couple of work-heavy weeks ahead of me. thank u so so much for the kindness you've showed so far, i adore each and every one of u

Traditionally, there are seven Trials to complete. When he finds out what they are, Jaskier negotiates it down to six by digging in his heels and stubbornly maintaining that, _technically_ , he has already completed the first one and no, he most certainly will not be doing it again.

“What does it matter that I didn’t know of my potential when I did it?” he maintains. “I still managed to do what you want me to do, and I didn’t even have divine power to back it up. It can even be turned into my origin story, and I wrote it myself!”

“It’s not your story, it’s the story of _the Witcher_ ,” the crotchety old god in charge of this trial maintains (Jaskier knows his name, _he does_ , it’s just escaping him at this moment), throwing desperate glances at Melitele.

Amongst whatever reservations the gods might have had about him (not naming names, _Tisigaeto_ ), Jaskier refusing to perform had not been one of them. To be perfectly honest, he’s surprised himself. He’s usually the first in line for the stage, but there just something about this god that pisses him off. (And if there’s a niggling worry at the back of his mind that if he forsakes this song now, it’ll be lost to him forever… that’s for him to know and for a certain white-haired someone to never hear about.) 

“I’m featured in the song, that makes it my story, too.”

“You want your mythic origins to be tied to the Witcher?”

Jaskier gnashes his teeth. Trust a god to know where to hit. Attaching himself and his future to this song does defeat his purpose, going directly against what he’d set out to do when the request for _Toss a Coin_ made him forsake the Witcher’s influence on his life. But Jaskier is not backing down now. Not while Melitele is watching, and Vaska, and Tisigaeto, too (not that he cares about her opinion, except he really does), along with the two other goddesses who will oversee his Trials.

Besides; he’d worked hard for that song! Twenty years and it’s still wildly popular, that’s dedication and skill right there. If there’s even the slightest chance that Jaskier can use it, he will, damn the consequences and damn his principles (also known as ‘spite’).

“You said the Trial was to establish myself in the human consciousness so that my story might grow from there, and I have,” he says, buffing his nails on his doublet as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I guarantee that any crowd on the Continent will know the words to my song— _and_ my name. Therefore, the Trial is complete. I am the humble bard, and when I am a god, my roots will be remembered.”

The god fumes and gesticulates angrily at Melitele, who shrugs. He then tries Tisigaeto but meets only a neutral sort of scorn. Jaskier is surprised that she hasn’t gainsaid him; she doesn’t even appear bothered by what is, technically, cheating (yes, of course Jaskier knows it’s cheating, but all’s fair in love and obstinacy.) When the god meets no support from her corner, he tries Vaska.

“He must establish himself as a _god,_ not a _bard!_ ”

He is as disappointed by Vaska’s answer as Jaskier is heartened by it. “If all goes well, he’ll be the god of bards.”

“Let us vote,” Melitele cuts in, by now beyond exasperated by their squabbling. You’d think they were all human children, not mighty gods. Jaskier at least has an excuse, but the rest should know better. “All in favour of the first Trial having been completed ahead of time, raise your hands.”

They all raise their hands, even Tisigaeto and the shadowy goddess whom Jaskier cannot look at for too long, or he starts contemplating what screaming for eternity would be like. Something is _wrong_ with her. He’s not sure whether she’s supposed to be like that or not, and it unsettles him.

He smirks at the crotchety old god, who storms out of the hall, muttering under his breath.

*

If Jaskier thinks that that is the end of it, he is sadly mistaken. Turns out, the gods who had sided with him had mostly done so out of a desire to see the crotchety one gone.

“We’d promised Soplatya that he could take part in the Trials when another demi-god showed up,” Vaska tells him while Jaskier repeats ‘Soplatya’ under his breath. “Mostly because we hadn’t anticipated any would show up. Demi-gods don’t tend to walk the Path, even if they know it’s possible, so it’d been an easy promise to make. Then you came along, and let’s just say he’s more well-suited to hypotheticals than practice, being the God of Philosophy.”

Good thing he’s run off to sulk then.

Meanwhile, while Jaskier does not need to complete the first Trial as he normally would, the assembled gods do see a need for him to prove his worth (and his words).

“But you just voted on it being complete!”

“We just need a demonstration, stop whining, you baby.”

Thus, Jaskier gets dropped in a northern city with Vaska by his side, thankfully sans dizziness. His lute has been restored to him, miraculously intact after the inter-dimensional travelling they’ve been doing. (He’s trying not to think too hard about that part, or else it’s going to dawn on him just how epically bad an idea this all is.)

“Where are we, exactly?” he asks, turning to Vaska.

“On the eastern side of Barefield,” Vaska says. “Not too far from where you came to us from.”

Great. Still within sight of the Dragon Mountains then. He hopes they don’t accidentally run into Geralt, that’d be incredibly awkward. _Hello, Witcher, it is I, divine bard to be, stating my independence from you by singing about you! No, don’t try to make sense of it, I’m flying by the seat of my pants here._

Rather than dwell, he takes in Vaska, now in human form (it does not occur to him until later that his staring is rather rude. Vaska, glorious, kind Vaska, does not smite him, even if he deserves it a little bit.) Like this, Vaska is heavy-set, tending towards plump, with shoulder-length blond hair and the most astounding eyes; dark brown, with a ring of black around the pupils, enchanting beyond measure.

“Beg your pardon, but I’m not sure how to address you,” Jaskier says.

Vaska smiles. “My pronouns are _yes_.” A laugh. “‘They’ is fine for you to use for now; if it changes, I’ll tell you.”

“Goody, let’s go then, m’theydy.”

Vaska catches him by the arm and looks deeply into his eyes. “Never call me that again.”

“Yeah, I threw up a little in my mouth, too,” Jaskier admits with a wince.

*

A godling bard and a true god walk into a bar.

Their arrival is instantly noticed; both are handsomely dressed, one in red silk, the other in ruffles and fur. Jaskier grins and winks to all and sundry, stirring the crowd before he even starts playing. It’s a good way to gauge the feel of the room; if spirits are high, they’ll engage in his flirting; if a brawl is about to break out, he’s more likely to be snarled at. The spirits are high in this city.

But why wouldn’t they be? The dwarves have probably made it to King Niedamir’s court by now, and news of the dead dragon will have spread. The kingdom is safe, their borders secure; the war that threatens the south is but a nasty rumour here.

“I just go on?” Jaskier asks Vaska, sotto-voce. “Play like I usually do?”

“More or less.”

Why must gods be so oblique? “Is it more or is it less?” (It never occurs to Jaskier that he shouldn’t question gods on everything. Vaska is… Vaska is divine, there’s no doubt, but here amongst the people, they are so achingly human, almost a peer, and he forgets himself.)

“It is more and it is less,” Vaska repeats. There is a teasing glint in their eyes, and that is the only reason Jaskier doesn’t start nagging right away. “I think you’ll find that this performance will have quite a different feel than usual.”

“That’s not helpful.” He looks around again. His eyes linger on a small group of merchants, all of whom are wearing a lightning pendant around their necks. He squints. “Isn’t that the sigil of the Cult of the Forefather?” And isn’t Barefield the centre of said cult?

“It is.”

“The Cult that takes issue with all things magical, especially Witchers and monsters.”

“Mhm-mhm, correct.”

He turns to Vaska, eye twitching. “And you want me to sing to _them_ about _Witchers and monsters_ and _my relation to them._ ”

Vaska grins, puts their hands on their hips, and recites in a high voice, “‘ _I guarantee that any crowd on the Continent will know the words to my song’_ —”

Jaskier stalks away, middle finger raised. Vaska just laughs at him.

*

He takes his place on stage. Those who’ve recognized him watch eagerly—or in the case of the merchants, warily—and those who don’t know him watch with only limited attention, more focused on their drinking and merry-making.

Deep breaths. He’s not prone to stage fright or any kind of social fright for that matter, but every now and then it hits him how much he’s actually showing of himself when he performs, even if the crowd isn’t aware of it. Maybe not in word, but in voice. For how many lies he’s told, he’s never been good at hiding what really matters.

Tonight, he writes the beginnings of his story, using a well-worn song about the person who’s been his dearest friend for decades. The song that had changed the world’s perception of Witchers, now the one to cement their perception of the bard himself.

It’s a bit like full circle, isn’t it? Like reclaiming it, in a way.

(Even if he’s not sure he wants to reclaim it. Maybe he should’ve just gone along with the Trial in truth. After all, this song is as much Geralt’s song as it is Jaskier’s. But he’s come this far, and he’s still stinging from the mountain, angry enough to pick at the things that had made their friendship special. _If life could give me one blessing…_ )

Jaskier sings. 

It starts the way he’s used to. He sings, and some listen, and some don’t. As his voice gains ground, he feels a tingling at the centre of his chest, moving from his lungs to his throat. It’s not painful, just strange. It’s the part of his performance that Vaska had said would be ‘different’. The people who’d sung along to the chorus now sing along to the verses; those who hadn’t sung at all, now sing the chorus.

It’s _power._ Raw, seedling amounts of divine power taking hold in him. Jaskier thinks it is what makes them all sing along, but he’s wrong. This power is just to consolidate the Trial, not for him to use. The attention he’s gained is all to his own credit. But he doesn’t know that.

He sings louder, plays harder. He lets the joy of it infect his voice. All the things he’d felt when he’d written the song; the elation, the subsuming disbelief that he’d faced death and lived, the fascination with the golden-eyed giant at his side.

The song becomes something other than a tale. It becomes a celebration. It becomes a dirge. The tale of the Witcher and his humble bard, the humble bard and his White Wolf, forever entwined in verse.

Jaskier remembers the way the first crowd had reacted to his song; the incredulity, even outright disgust. But slowly, they’d started tapping their feet or drumming their fingers against their tankards. Though they hadn’t it wanted to, the song had dug its hooks into them. It does the same thing now, getting even the merchants to hum along.

How many times has he sung it? To annoy Geralt, to please a crowd; it must number in the thousands. How many doors has it opened? How many times has he found himself with enough coin to pay to fill his belly and have a room of his own, even if just for a night, even with Geralt at his side? How many people have allowed them to exist peacefully in their midst, their distrust gentled by Jaskier’s song? How had it spread so far so fast, letting them into courts as well as inns?

How many paths had opened to them because of that song? Would they even have found each other again if it hadn’t been for _Toss a Coin_? Jaskier thinks they might. He thinks Destiny had wanted them to meet and keep meeting. If he was just a pawn to lead Geralt to Cintra, then why had it brought them back together time and time again after that?

His voice changes. Surges high, growls low. He lets it run through him, everything he’s felt in the past few days. Despair, hurt, fury, spite. Gentles it with the memory of what had been when he’d walked by Geralt’s side and made him smile; satisfaction, contentment, joy. And above all… belonging. 

And in that moment, though he doesn’t know it, Jaskier changes his Destiny.

*

Though there are few gods gifted with foresight—and even fewer who are still sane, for a given value of the word—Vaska, Keeper of the Crossroads, senses the change. From the bar where they’ve sat and watched, sampling the local vodka, they raise their head and fix their eyes on the little godling.

They cannot see exactly what will pass, but they can sense the threads of Destiny and see that the road ahead is tangled. Jaskier’s Path had been… not easy, but more or less predictable before, even if Vaska did not know the specifics only the ending. Now, it will not be easy. It will not be kind. That is all they know; the rest is unclear, the ending veiled from sight.

Jaskier sings and people listen, ignoring Vaska entirely. Even for a city this size, Vaska stands out, and the sudden anonymity is unusual. They do not stand out because people sense their divinity, but simply because they are different and visibly so. Vaska makes a point to emphasise it. Their people, their worshippers, rarely look for divinity at the alter; they look for hope that they are not alone. That they have never been.

That while their path is unexpected, it is not unnatural. It is simply extraordinary.

But Jaskier draws the eye and lets Vaska exist in peace for a little while. In his red doublet and trousers (which Vaska had fixed up a little with a bit of magic; Jaskier had been wearing it for days), with his blue eyes blazing and his heart on his sleeve, Vaska feels an unexpected kinship with the young godling. They hadn’t offered their guidance at the assembly because of any such feeling. It had mostly been pity; rejection is something Vaska knows well.

As the song comes to an end and Jaskier’s fledgling power dies down, Vaska sees the bard in light of the Trials to come. They won’t tell him; it’s not their place. Besides, such news rarely does any good or makes even the smallest change.

“That do it?” Jaskier asks, high on the triumph of a stellar performance. The people are still cheering, calling for an encore.

Vaska nods. “Sufficient.”

“That was flawless, and you know it.”

They pad Jaskier’s head patronizingly. Jaskier squawks.

*

_A few days later…_

Geralt approaches Barefield with all the wariness such a city deserves. While most of the Continent can be counted on to be unfriendly—though decidedly less so in the past twenty years—this particular area is ripe with Kreve worshippers and even the outmost reaches of the city are suspicious of anything resembling magic. Geralt’s kind are abominations in their eyes. (And in many other eyes, but he’s learned to live with it.)

Still, Geralt risks passing through.

It is immediately apparent that something has happened. For one, the people he meets do not ward themselves at the sight of him. They don’t exactly smile either, but they let him be. When he gets to a more trafficked area, they don’t jump out of his path, just bustle around him as if he’s just another traveller.

“Hmm.”

He could keep riding, but something makes him stop. He chooses an inn at random, stabling Roach and rubbing her down himself. It isn’t until he approaches the doors that he catches the scent, that sandalwood bath oil that Jaskier so favours. Geralt hasn’t smelled Jaskier himself yet, but the familiarity pulls him inside.

There, it is immediately obvious that Jaskier has been here. Recently, too. If Geralt wanted to, he could trace the bard’s exact path through the common room, complete with his artful swirls. He must have been performing. He smells like he was happy at one point, though that note is fleeting, buried beneath the avalanche of every other emotion Jaskier had felt when he was here.

Geralt closes his eyes and breathes in.

It is hard to describe a person’s scent. It’s not as unique as poetry would have you believe (or maybe just Jaskier’s poetry, flowery as it can be). Mostly, people smell like the things they’ve touched and eaten throughout the day, overlaid with whatever emotion they’re feeling at that given moment. The base note is that of their species, human or otherwise. He can usually tell sex from their scent, too, but not always.

But despite the commonalities, Geralt still knows how to recognize people by scent.

Jaskier always smells like bath oil—and so does Geralt, as Jaskier had liked to share. He smells of silk and cotton from how often he replaces his clothes, barely giving his scent time to settle into them properly. He smells of sweat, road dust, and the weather. If pressed, Geralt would even say he smells like summer.

(No one’s ever pressed him for an answer to that.)

He heads for the bar. He takes care to mind his manners, keeping his hood up. Even with how non-violently the city has so far treated him, there’s always the chance that it will turn on him. The innkeeper greets him neutrally, even has the courtesy to indicate the Kreve worshippers in the corner of the room and lower his voice to keep Geralt’s business from becoming theirs. 

“The bard came through here a few nights ago,” he tells Geralt. “Didn’t stay long. Only played one song—the one about you, the coin one, you know—didn’t even take the money it earned him and walked out of here with his friend.”

“Friend?”

“Odd bird, that one. Still, didn’t give no trouble, so I didn’t make it my business to ask. They seemed close, though.”

Geralt frowns. While Jaskier makes friends easily, he is as transient—if not more so—as Geralt himself (and if Geralt suspects that had he been a normal man, he’d have had a farm somewhere and never left it, that’s neither here nor there). For someone to be a close friend, they would have to have been someone Jaskier had mentioned before.

Essi Daven, perhaps? Another bard, and one Jaskier actually liked. Not like that Marx guy he’d wished death on more than once. Maybe Priscilla? But neither were, as far as Geralt had understood from Jaskier’s unasked-for stories, ‘odd’ in any way.

“Was it another bard?” he asks.

The innkeeper shakes his head. “If anything, a patron. Or patroness, what do I know. All I can say for sure is that they arrived and left together, and while they were here, they bickered like siblings.”

What the hell has Jaskier gotten into now? Geralt sighs. “A meal, and then I’ll leave. Just tell me which direction they went.”

He phrases it as an order rather than a question as would be more polite, hoping it’ll let him fill his belly with something other than hard tack and dried meat. When it actually works and the innkeeper shows him to a secluded corner, Geralt is relieved. It’s the best time he’s ever had in Barefield. The food is even hot, and tasty, too, if a little too peppery for Geralt’s tongue. 

As for where Jaskier had gone…

“Can’t tell you,” the innkeeper says. “No one saw.”

Geralt will just have to follow the road. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live  
> also: i am not sorry about what happens this chapter, it had to be done
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> \- references to vomiting  
> \- dubious parenting

Jaskier is a little outraged that Vaska will not be accompanying him for the second Task. In part because Tisigaeto will be the one to administer it, and he’d rather relive that day on the mountain a hundred times over than be alone with her (that’s a lie; shush!); but also because in these past… days? Weeks? Time is strange here, he’s not sure how long it’s been. What matters is that he’s spent almost all his time with Vaska, and he quite enjoys their company.

They are odd, but maybe that’s just how gods are. Sometimes, though, they’ll look at Jaskier with eyes that are too old (how can they be too old? How old is Vaska? Jaskier doesn’t know, but he dreads the heaviness in their gaze), as if waiting for something unspeakable to happen. Then, they’ll disappear for a while, and when they come back, they’re calm again.

“It won’t be kind,” is the only advice Vaska gives before the second Task. Jaskier doesn’t appreciate the truth of that statement until much, much later.

Tisigaeto brings him to a coastal town he’s never been to before. It’s so beautiful that for a moment, Jaskier forgets to resent his mother’s presence and instead just follows in her wake, eyes as big as saucers and his lips parted in astonishment.

Countless merchants have set up shop, both in the old, elegant buildings that line the cobblestone streets, and in tents all over the market squares. They pass by spice shops with colourful towers of ground powders, the smells unbelievable. There are glass blowers twisting red-hot sand into delicate shapes, silver smiths peddling their wares from the shade. And the food! So many fruits he’s never seen before, pastries and breads and meat-skewers sizzling in the sun.

Most amazing of all is the variety of people in the streets. There are Elves here, walking freely among the humans, all laughing, talking, and bickering, with not a single shadow of resentment to be seen from either them or their human companions. Their children play together in the streets, streaking by Jaskier and Tisigaeto as they chase one another. There are dwarves here, too, not just as merchants, but as bakers, seamstresses, and teachers, too. Jaskier even spots a few sorcerer-like figures, magic at their fingers like blue sparks.

But one person stands out the most of all.

A Witcher with eyes like Geralt’s strides casually through the market, looking for all the world to be completely at ease. He greets the marketgoers and is met with friendly hellos. No one fears him. No one hates him. He just is. (Has Geralt ever met welcome like—doesn’t matter. Stop thinking about him.)

“The second Task,” Tisigaeto interrupts his reverie (rather rudely, he might add), “is a test of strength and restraint.”

“You already told me this,” he says. She hasn’t looked at him even once.

She ignores him now, too. She’s quite good at that. Must be the forty something years she’s had to practice. “The world endures because there is balance between Chaos and Order. The power of gods is like the power of sorcerers: raw Chaos. But unlike sorcerers, we do not feel the effects of Chaos upon ourselves.”

She turns to him, looking at a point somewhere over his shoulder. In her human guise she is remarkably unremarkable, dressed in simple mercenary garb. She has a few traces of beauty to her; her large, hooked nose and her pale, blue eyes (though that may be vanity speaking. After all, Jaskier’s eyes are the same, and he’s particularly fond of his looks). There is a stateliness to her, or perhaps it is simply sternness and her excessive height. (Why won’t she look at him?)

“This Task,” she continues, “will show how great your power is and the consequences of using it.”

Jaskier says, “That’s all fine, but question: What is this place?” He’ll want to revisit it when all this is over. Maybe he’ll become their patron deity, that would be neat. (Maybe he’ll leave a trail for Geralt to follow, maybe Geralt will find peace here—except Geralt wants nothing to do with him and Jaskier is still mad, so there).

“It does not matter.”

“Uh, yes, it matters, I want to know.”

“It doesn’t—”

“ _Yes, it does_!” Jaskier yells. They must be veiled from human eyes, because no one looks up at his outburst.

Finally, Tisigaeto looks at him, her son. As it had been that day at the gathering of the gods, her gaze is cool and unmoved, her face a neutral mask. She asks the one question that could conceivably get Jaskier all puffed up: “Are you done?”

“No, I am not, as a matter of fact, ‘done’. What is your problem? Why can’t you look at me? Why did you abandon my mother? Why did you reject me when—” The questions go on for a while. He has a lot to get off his chest, a lot of wounds opening.

Miraculously, Tisigaeto deigns to answer. (Jaskier almost wishes she wouldn’t.) “My problem, as you so eloquently put it, is that you have not thought any of this through. You are a spiteful, arrogant child on a quest to prove yourself to one person, damn who or what might feel the consequences of that. Being a god is not just revelling in worship, as you so foolishly seem to think. But you have no respect, no sense of duty.”

“Wow, that’s really been burdening you, hasn’t it?” Jaskier quips. If he sounds hoarse, it’s just because of the yelling. It’s not because every word is like a dagger in his chest. He’s Julian Alfred Pankratz—he does not shrink in the face of disparaging remarks. He’s like a weed; tough in the face of adversity.

“You are making a mistake and you do not have the wits to see it,” Tisigaeto goes on, obviously building up steam. “You want to be a god—then what? What ends do you seek to conquer? What awe do you expect from your so-called ‘friend’—”

“Geralt _is_ my friend.” His voice isn’t shaking. It isn’t.

Tisigaeto shakes her head at him. “You bullied your way into his life, continually disrespected his wishes and his limits, and used him for your own ends—”

“Stop it.” That’s not what happened, it’s not, even if, in part, it is true, but it wasn’t like that, it _wasn’t_. Maybe it started like that, but it changed, it _did_ , they were happy, for a while, and they were _friends_. ( _I was_ his _friend._ )

“—all the while expecting his praise. But he snapped at you and sent you from his side—”

“ _Stop it_!”

“No, you will listen to me, child. You asked and here are the answers. I cannot look at you, because you are my pride and my selfishness made flesh. I loved your mother despite knowing it would ruin her. Even as I tried to love her as humans do, steady and patient and true, it wasn’t enough. She knew I was holding back. I let her talk me into loving her as gods do.” She sighs, almost wistful. “Gods do not love in a way that humans understand. We are always, always pulled towards something else, something grander, things we must do, prayers we must attend to. I consumed her and left her in the morning, as is the way of gods. When I returned, you had been born—almost two years old then. Time had passed in the blink of an eye for me, but to her, it was a betrayal. I’d abandoned her and she could not forgive me.”

 _And what about me_? Jaskier wants to ask. But his throat has tightened. He can barely breathe.

As if hearing him, she says, “I wanted to spare you. Becoming a god means abandoning your humanity. And you are, above all else, the most human creature I have ever set eyes on, in all your flaws and blessings. You are as you should be. You are not suited for this path, my son.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps.

She doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t try to comfort him. In a way, that makes it worse. “You are making a mistake. And now you know why.”

Jaskier can’t look at her. “Just point me to the Task and let me go.”

He doesn’t say, _I’ll show you. I’ll be a greater god than you could ever imagine._

Tisigaeto seems to hear it anyway and turns away.

*

She leads him to a cellar below the market square, a wide, empty space that curiously isn’t used for storage. The sounds of the lively market filter down to them through the gutters; they are only about ten feet underground.

“Sit,” she bids him.

Jaskier sits on the floor in the centre of the room, steadfastly not looking directly at her. Their roles have changed; now, she cannot seem to tear her eyes from him, and oh, what devouring eyes she has. He feels like he’s burning, every flaw, every mistake he’s ever made tearing strips off his skin. This is what you get for challenging the Goddess of Vengeance and Wrath, Lady of Justice and Balance.

(Though it pains him, he knows he’s gotten off lightly. There are worse tales of her retribution.)

“When the Task begins, you will feel all your power flow through you,” she explains. “And we shall see how you wield it.”

“Wield it against what?”

She looks at him almost pityingly. “You will not wield it with any sense of control.” Then, her gaze flicks upwards.

And Jaskier understands. “Wait—”

But Tisigaeto is gone and the first stirrings of power tingles at his throat.

_A test of strength and restraint._

He cannot get out. Where they’d entered, the door is no more, only a solid stone wall. Jaskier sprints around the room, desperately looking for a way out, a tiny crack, anything. But he cannot squeeze his shoulders into vents, cannot leave the cellar. All the while, power fills him, building in his chest. Aboveground, children laugh.

_How great your power is and the consequences of using it._

They cannot be that cruel, can they? Are gods not sworn to protect humanity? Is that not their purpose? They won’t let him harm anyone, will they? Please, don’t let him harm anyone.

He cannot call for help; if he opens his mouth… It’ll pour out of him. He cannot get out. He cannot crawl into a corner and wait it out, it’s happening already; his body aches, he can barely breathe. He wants to sing; he mustn’t sing. But he needs to, he’s dying to.

Keep it in, keep quiet, don’t make a sound.

His hearing has sharpened. He can hear each individual footstep from the world above, can distinguish between voices and tones and accents. The merriment and bustle of the square, the haggling at each stall and shop, the orders given by a mistress to her maids, a teacher’s patience, a carpenter’s frustration. Even the lives of vermin filter down to him, scurrying, gathering, nurturing their young.

The city is at his mercy and it does not have a single clue.

He holds it in as long as he can. After half an hour, he collapses onto the floor, his entire body convulsing with the need to let it out, let his power sing through him. He doesn’t make a sound, just lets the shakes work through him and grinds his teeth. He hopes they break. He’d rather suffer injury than harm the world above.

After an hour, he’s certain he has broken bones. Tears have leaked from his eyes. He needs water. There is none. His lungs are convulsing. He fear he’s going to throw up, but he doesn’t whimper, doesn’t cry out, no matter how much he wants to. A voice whispers, _just a peep, it’s alright, just a breath, it’ll be fine._ It won’t be, and he knows it.

The power crests. And Jaskier breaks.

*

He roars.

His regrets, his anger, his pain. The mountaintop, Tisigaeto’s words, his parents’ disregard. Older hurts, heartbreak, terror, and the djinn in Rinde. Geralt turning away from him and towards Yennefer. Jealousy Jaskier can barely understand.

He screams.

His horror at what’s happening even as he cannot stop. To the pillars he can hear tumbling in the world above, the screaming and crying and buildings falling. The stones around him shake, dust raining from the ceiling him. The ocean answers his call, battering at the shores; the wind howls.

He cries.

He doesn’t want to be alone. He’s sorry. Everybody he’s ever left behind, everybody who’s ever abandoned him, every lover he’s ever had and lost. It blooms from his throat in waves of gold, for noise has colour, and Jaskier can see them all. The sickly yellow shrieks of fear, the faint blue of parents trying to soothe their children as they flee. The angry red of breaking walls and blood spilling onto the ground.

And finally, he sings.

And the city comes down around him.

*

When Tisigaeto comes for him, Jaskier is on the floor, curled up.

He’s a mess. Spit and snot leaking him his mouth and nose, tears from his eyes. He’s sweaty and rumpled and doesn’t give a single fuck. He just… he just tore a city apart with nothing but his voice. He heard it crumble. All those people died because he couldn’t control himself, didn’t know how to direct his voice (isn’t even sure that that was possible in the first place).

The power has been drained from him, finally. “Why?” he croaks at her. He’s crying and he doesn’t care to hide it. He just… gods, all those people. And he’s angry, beyond angry, but he doesn’t have the energy, he’s just so tired and achy and empty.

She doesn’t answer, just picks him up. He doesn’t resist, can’t even get his legs under him. She has to carry him from the cellar like a child. He soaks her shirt with tears and snot and isn’t humiliated by it. What is humiliation in the face of what he’s done?

Aboveground, she bids him to look at the damage he’s wrought.

He doesn’t want to. Can’t bear it. But she forces his head up and makes him.

The city lies in ruins. Not a single building is still standing. Stalls lie shattered and scattered. There’s water everywhere, from the tidal waves he called here. The air is full of smoke and dust.

But something is missing.

There are no remains—no _human_ remains. Not even a streak of blood or a torn off limb. And the timber is rotted, as if it has been years, not minutes since his voice gave out.

“The name of this city has been forgotten by time,” Tisigaeto tells him as Jaskier blinks uncomprehendingly at their surroundings. “A century ago, it was battered by one disaster after the other. Finally, it was abandoned. Broken before you ever came here.”

“But the people—” The _life_. He’d seen it with his own eyes.

“An illusion. You needed to understand the stakes of having power like ours.”

He struggles feebly in her arms, renewed rage burning through the grief and horror. It wasn’t real. None of it had been real. Except his voice and the destruction it had wrought on a ghost town.

Tisigaeto sets him gently down and lets him scream himself hoarse. Now that his power has been exhausted, Jaskier finds that he does have the air to rage at the gods for putting him through all this. His words barely make sense, but the sentiments are clear. He’s not happy. He is, as a matter of fact and quite unsurprisingly, fucking pissed. And he’s still crying, still feels like vomiting from it all. (It’d serve her right if he threw up on her boots, and spitefully, he wants to force himself to.)

She has no pity to offer him. When he finally falls to his knees, shaking, she tilts his head up and tells him. “This is what you chose. Now you understand.”

Jaskier thinks he might hate her a little. “All this just to scare me?” He adds, foolhardily, “That the best you can do?”

She doesn’t roll her eyes at him, but it’s a close call. Jaskier takes a perverse sort of pleasure in that. Now that he knows it hadn’t been real, he’s all bluster again, if only to cover the trembling in his hands and voice. He’ll show her that he’s made of stronger stuff.

(And if he wakes up screaming and ends up crying into Vaska’s shoulder for a few nights, that’s between him and Vaska. Fuck gods and their tests. Except Vaska; Vaska is alright. Even if they are skating on thin fucking ice sometimes.)

*

It’s been over a month since the mountain.

Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier even once, hasn’t picked up his scent since he left Kovir, but still he keeps finding minute traces of his presence. A rumour here, a story there. A few travellers claim to have heard him sing, others claim they saw him passing through the town without stopping. It doesn’t matter as long as it gives Geralt something to go on, and on he trudges.

He’s in Kaedwen when he notices that he’s being watched. 

It’s been a long day, a long march, and he’s made camp at the edge of a town. He’s out of money, but what else is new. His last job had paid fine, but Roach had thrown a shoe, and that took precedence over his own comfort, so no inns for a while. He makes a foray into the small town solely to stock up on hardtack and dried meat, seeking to make his escape from civilization as quickly as possible.

That is when he feels her gaze.

She looks to be a mercenary of some kind, dressed in bland clothes well-suited for travelling and light armour. Armed and comfortable with being so. Her hair is a muddy blondish-brown, unremarkable and bound back tightly to keep it out of her face. She’s got a hooked nose and light eyes, which she keeps lowered as he glances at her, almost like a cat not wishing its prey to be aware that it is watching.

Geralt keeps a wary eye on her, but despite her intense regard, she doesn’t actually get up and follow him to camp. Still, he feels her gaze and it makes him leery. He stays up instead of going to sleep, caring for Roach’s tack as darkness descends.

No one comes for him that night.

In the morning, he picks up his things. As he’s about to ride out, he overhears a dark-eyed peasant telling his companions about the bard he’d passed on his way to town, “you know, the one who made those Witcher songs”. Geralt turns Roach down that road at once, angry with himself for not having smelled Jaskier so close by.

Pale eyes watch him go, but he doesn’t notice.

*

In a different sphere, while Jaskier sleeps, Tisigaeto corners Vaska. Or rather; Vaska lets themselves be cornered, placidly facing Tisigaeto as she advances.

“Why do you leave a trail for the Witcher to follow?” she asks. Demands. She has the kind of voice that makes everything sound like an order. “And where are you leading him?”

Vaska watches her with those dark, clever eyes. “I do not know.”

She doesn’t sigh, but she wants to. She has very little patience to spare. “Then why—”

“All I know,” Vaska cuts in, entirely uncaring that they are interrupting a goddess of significant destructive power, “is that if I don’t, all this will be for naught. He has his part to play before the ascendance.”

She eyes them hard. “Jaskier _will_ ascend?”

“Depends.”

Of course. She doesn’t know why she expected a different answer. Rather than trying for a new one, she turns to watch her son sleep. In her goddess form, Jaskier barely comes up to her knee, just a small, delicate creature made from his mother’s flesh and Tisigaeto’s power. She sees herself in him and it unsettles her. She remembers too well her foolhardiness and attempt to be human. 

“How is his training coming along?”

“He does not fear his power, despite the Task.”

She hears the censure in Vaska’s voice and meets their gaze head-on. “He needed to understand. His every action has consequences, more so as a god. Every song he sings from now on will echo across the spheres. He needs to learn to think things through.”

Vaska inclines their head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “As you say, goddess.”

She stalks away. Vaska will do as Vaska wishes. In some ways, they are a much better fit for Jaskier than she could ever be. Oh, they have got things in common, her and her son; they are both bull-headed and fierce. Once they set their sights on something, they’ll see it through to the end (apparently no matter how stupid).

That is why she had sought out the Witcher. She had needed to see for herself this creature that her son has bound himself to so thoroughly, this being whose rejection set him on this foolish path. In the way of gods, she knows things about their relationship, not because she has watched over them these past decades, but because Jaskier’s mind and heart are as open books to her, and the Witcher shines brightly in both.

Through Jaskier, she’d seen the ways in which he and the Witcher tore at each other, the disagreements they’d had, the arguments and even fighting. It calls to her, the urge to set it to rights, not as a mother, but as a goddess. (She’d also seen the genuine love Jaskier had for his Witcher and the deep, almost unbounded trust. She does not connect with those as easily. It is not her nature, for they are not betrayals to be avenged.)

So, she’d gone and seen the Witcher follow the tracks left by a god to lure him who knew where. His mind and heart were closed to her, but that is the way of Witchers. They’ve long since rejected religion, and the gods have no power over them. It has never bothered her before. In that moment, it did.

She hopes Jaskier knows what he has begun. But she doubts it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fourth Task ended up being a very quick one, but it wasn't as important as they others in the grand scheme of things, so i cut it short. enjoy!

Due to scheduling conflicts, Jaskier’s next Task has been delayed. No, really. Melitele tells him that ‘unforeseen circumstances prohibit them from continuing’ (but doesn’t say a damn thing about what those circumstances are, which is kind of ominous), and so, Jaskier gets to spend a lot of time in the Hall.

The positive thing about all that waiting, however, is that Jaskier has plenty of time to practice controlling his new power. Now, when the golden rush rises in his throat, he knows how to let it out without injuring anybody or anything. It’s a strange thing, that power. It comes in waves; not a steady, solid thing, but a fluctuating, mercurial tide. Vaska says it’ll change as he grows into it; that one day, it’ll always rest at the back of his tongue, ready for when he needs it.

For now, it’s a bit like puberty though, cracking voice included.

Already a noisy fellow to begin with, he finds himself almost perpetually humming to keep himself level. Sometimes, he can’t even carry a conversation, as forming words might unintentionally bring about some great calamity (he has nightmares about that; of saying ‘rock’ and starting an earthquake). So, when he cannot sing, he hums.

The gods learn to listen for him and judge his moods by how aggressive his melody is. Likely taking pity on him, Vaska shows him the gardens, a vast forest-like area that lies just beyond the Hall. There, they train, Vaska instructing Jaskier in how to see and feel the shape of his power, how to direct it and make it dance. There, it doesn’t matter if Jaskier loses track of the melody; the forest has weathered worse than his loss of control.

He does accidentally stimulate the growth of weeds, though. They seem to like his voice— _especially_ the humming. Which means that there are now weeds _everywhere._ If a vengeful garden deity shows up to strangle him, he’d deserve it.

“I feel like I’m being punished,” Jaskier says, weaving a flower crown from the dandelions he’s accidentally grown from nothing (he has his suspicions that he didn’t actually do a damn thing and the dandelions are just using him as a likely excuse for them to grow absolutely everywhere, because that’s just how dandelions do). He’s lying with his head on Vaska’s thigh, the god reading as Jaskier bemoans his life. “Like somewhere, Destiny is laughing at me.”

“You did say your name was Dandelion in some places,” Vaska says distractedly.

“I also said that was a translation error.” He pouts. “And I _want_ control of buttercups.”

“Your life is so very hard, _braciszek._ ”

Jaskier squirms happily. _Braciszek_ means ‘baby brother’, and though Jaskier has been called affectionate nicknames by his biological siblings when he still lived at home—before they grew out of the habit and took on their father’s distaste for his oldest ‘son’—Vaska using it grounds him in a way he can’t put into words. It feels like belonging.

It also means ‘brat’, but he’s gracefully choosing to overlook that.

(And if Jaskier wakes up some days instinctively turning to where Geralt once was beside him… he tries not to dwell on that. Those moments, Jaskier almost forgets that he’s still hurt and angry. He just wants to go back to the way things were. (The place he _truly_ belongs.) (The place that’s slipping away from him with every step.))

He wriggles sideways until he’s fully in Vaska’s lap, sprawled like a particularly dramatic cat in search of belly scratches. Jaskier is a tactile person, and since the only being in this place who’s willing to consistently pay attention to him is Vaska, it means that Vaska gets stuck with a lot of hugs and dramatics.

“Will the next Task be like the last one? ‘Not kind’?”

Vaska pets his face (literally, the middle of his face) and wiggles the hand holding the book. “Eh.”

If Jaskier wasn’t so adept at parsing _hmm_ s for meaning, he wouldn’t know what to make of that. As it is, he knows enough to want to shove Vaska into the sea for being flippant.

*

He misses Geralt. He doesn’t want to, but he does. But then, there’s a lot of things Jaskier feels about Geralt that he doesn’t want to feel. One thing especially, but he’s pretending that that one has been dulled by hurt and anger. (It hasn’t.)

Love is the cruellest affliction.

*

The first time Jaskier realizes that what he feels for Geralt is more than friendship is in Rinde. The timing could possibly have been worse, but it would have been a real stretch.

While Geralt and Yennefer canoodle in the broken-down manor (an image that utterly delights Jaskier for about an hour before he gets cranky, the reasons for which he has yet to realize), Jaskier drags himself and Roach to town, content to comfort poor Chireadan as the Elf languishes in heartache.

(He does not yet know that the heavy feeling inside him is heartache, too. He thinks he’s simply annoyed at Geralt for not running to check on his very best friend in the whole wide world. He’s just survived a djinn attack, for fuck’s sake, he deserves pampering.)

Instead, he’s in a tavern, looking at Chireadan and wondering why he isn’t more intent to seduce the Elf to get over his own break with the (formerly) beloved Countess. He’s a pretty lad, the Elf, all big eyes and square jaw, and Jaskier gives it even odds that Chireadan would find him attractive in return. After all, he’s in love with Yennefer. Can’t hate humans too much then.

He could make a move. But he doesn’t. He spends the night awkwardly patting Chireadan’s shoulder as the Elf vacillates between elation that Yennefer survived and sadness that she very visibly has no interest in him whatsoever.

When Geralt finally arrives at the tavern, he storms upstairs with only a dark look at Jaskier (he had _not_ been happy to find that Roach hadn’t been waiting for him at the manor). Jaskier makes his half-hearted excuses and dashes right after him.

Upstairs, he sets to thoroughly washing every trace of Yennefer from Geralt’s skin (which in itself is not that strange; Geralt has done the same to him after a night of carousing. Woe betide Jaskier is he comes to Geralt smelling of other people; doesn’t even have to be sex, it’s enough if someone has been leaning against him. You bet that Geralt will be making Face of Displeasure No. IV if Jaskier doesn’t wash off before bed.)

He’s also helped with a bath before. Usually though, he only natters and throws water or bath salts at Geralt’s head. It’s very rare that he helps for real, especially after all the crowing he did about the chamomile last time. This time, he’s all hands and soap (which should be the first clue, but alas). Geralt is not pleased, showing as much with bared teeth and sub-vocal growling.

Jaskier snaps, “Well, _you’re_ not doing it properly!”

“I can wash myself, I’m not an _infant_.”

“Well, you’re behaving like one, so sit back and let me do it—”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“ _Geralt_.”

The evening does not get better from there, nor does the mood. Jaskier thinks he can still smell gooseberries and sex on Geralt’s skin, and Geralt refuses to use more astringent soaps. Not even reminding Geralt that Yennefer had threatened Jaskier’s privates with a knife gets an adequately sympathetic reaction. Geralt doesn’t want to hear a bad word about her, and bad words are all Jaskier has.

He doesn’t fully get why he’s so fixated on that until after they’ve bedded down to sleep, both mulishly turned away from one another. “Her beauty can’t possibly make up for her fucking nastiness,” he mutters into the pillow.

“Hmm.” It means _if you think you can throw stones when it comes to taking lovers, think a-fucking-gain._ Which: rude. Apt, but rude. But! Jaskier wants it noted that when he takes lovers, no matter if it’s just for one night, he’s always enamoured, half-way in love from just one look. That’s not what happened between Yennefer and Geralt (… it _better not be_ what happened between Yennefer and Geralt.)

Geralt doesn’t do ‘lovers’; he does exchanges of bodily fluids and money, preferring prostitutes even when it looks like a bolder village woman might gather up the courage to approach him despite his grumpy Witcher-ness. 

But lovers? No. That’d include being _in_ love or at least in _like_ , and Geralt likes to pretend that Witchers don’t feel. He wouldn’t know ‘love’ if it walked right up to him and engaged him in conversation. Now Jaskier: Jaskier knows love. Recognizes it from across the room, hidden in a corner, all golden eyes and—

 _Oh, motherfucker_.

That’s bloody inconvenient.

*

Jaskier smothers it and buries it and never looks at it. Geralt is not for him. His friendship is enough. These fluttery, slithery feelings are not allowed, and he will not be bullied by them!

Besides. Jaskier is Jaskier. He’d become attached to a statue if it was pretty enough. It’s fine. It’s all good. He’ll get over it. (He doesn’t. But at least Geralt overlooks it. Overlooks it so hard that when Jaskier says too much on the mountain ( _let’s go to the coast_? _Just trying to find out what pleases me_? Fucking shit, why hadn’t he just cut out his heart and gift-wrapped it), it flies right over the Witcher’s stupid, beautiful head. Not that Jaskier lies awake at night, cringing with the memory of that. Not at all.)

But anyway. That’s when Jaskier knew.

He’s like to un-know it. Would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.

(Despite the complaining, Vaska notes that Jaskier never hints at wanting to stop being in love with the Witcher. They don’t comment on it.)

*

Finally, the day of the Task arrives. Or rather, Task _s_ , as the third and fourth are traditionally carried out together. 

Vaska recaps, “As you know, the third Task builds on the second, and the fourth will build on the third. Where the second showed you the depths of your powers, the third is about using it. Though we gods do not feel the toll of using our powers, we are nonetheless still ruled by forces greater than ourselves: Chaos, Orders, Destiny, Death. We bow to them in the end.”

“So, what do I have to do?” Jaskier asks, waiting in the hallway for Melitele to come get him.

Tisigaeto stands by the wall, inspecting her exquisite double axe. There’s a fervour in her eyes that speaks of power barely leashed. (Jaskier doesn’t know this, but she’s pushing back summons to witness this. Her entire being strains towards her duty, but she plants her feet and stays. She’s not trying to make amends; she’s just… curious, is all. About this child of hers who’ll walk the Path of Gods.)

“Simply answer prayers,” Vaska says in a tone of voice that makes it clear that there is no ‘simply’ about this. “The only thing I can tell you is this: Pace yourself, listen, and observe. And try not to let it get to you. But especially observe, I know that’ll be hard for you when there are no golden-eyed grumps to stare at—”

“I’m going to get a brand-new lute just to throw it at your stupid head—”

“It’s time to go,” Melitele says, appearing as if from thin air.

Vaska holds up both thumbs as they disappear. 

*

One day, Jaskier will learn to take everything Vaska says as huge understatement. ‘Try not to let it get to you,’ they said, as if Jaskier was going on stage to perform in front of a perpetually dissatisfied crowd.

‘Try not to let it get to you’ simply does not work in the middle of a refugee camp.

They’re in the south somewhere. Jaskier can’t tell the exact area, but it’s not too far from the sea; when the wind blows from the west, it brings with it the smell of salt and seaweed. But that scent is mostly obscured by smoke and death and unwashed bodies. His belly drops.

“Get to work,” Melitele tells him, not unkindly.

“But I don’t know—” he stutters, jumping out of the way of passers-by. They can’t see him, will just walk right through him, but the feeling of that is unpleasant enough to get him moving. “I’m not—this isn’t my area. I do songs, Melitele, not medical attention, I don’t know—”

“Neither do I, but still I’m called to this site; when you’re a god, you’ll be called to places outside your immediate skillset also. Now go; the Task has begun.”

It takes a while for him to find his footing. Everywhere around them, people seem to be begging for help, not aloud, but in their minds and souls. Mothers want to keep their children safe, fathers to protect their families. People pray that they survive the night, that their wounds not be too severe, that there will be enough food to see them through, that the great army of Nilfgaard won’t find them. Endless, bottomless wells of prayers.

Jaskier is useless. Worse than useless, even. What is a god of music to suffering such as this? What help can he offer when he is incorporeal, when he cannot at least tie a bandage or serve food to those too weak to walk?

Finally, he does the only thing he can; he sings.

He doesn’t have much hope that it’ll do a damn thing but flinging himself at the mercy of his power and hoping it works is worth a try. He stands by a mother and softly sings a lullaby to calm her baby; the child stops crying, quieting slowly. But gods, does it take energy, and the murmur of prayers doesn’t cease even a little bit.

 _Pace yourself and listen,_ Vaska had said. Jaskier pulls back and listens.

And slowly, he starts to see the pattern of it all.

Hundreds of voices blending into one cacophonous choir. Hopes and prayers on every tongue, a messy, frantic river of colourful noise. Red and black and green and blue, pus-filled, teary-eyed, bloody. Jaskier plants his feet and joins his voice to theirs. _Here goes nothing._

The words he sings are nonsense, but that is unimportant. What matters is his voice itself, the way in which he fits himself to the melody of hope and desolation. He lets his body move where it wishes, stands over dying men and hums a childhood tune. His voice is memory and safety, is strength and stubbornness.

He goes where he is called. Sometimes at Melitele’s side, sometimes on his own. Where they pray, he answers, and his power flows freely. He cannot mend their wounds, but he can give them respite, if only for a while. For now, they are safe; when they hear his voice, they believe it.

He sings a story of bravery. Of triumph in adversity. Of scorched earth giving way to homesteads and farmland, impossible but magical. The cacophony changes and falls into tune. The people join their voices to his; here, a grandmother tells a story, there, a man mutters a working song. They remember what is was like to not be scared, what it was like to live free.

But still the prayers keep coming.

He pauses, straining for air. He’s been singing for hours, and now every note scrapes against his insides, draining. There’s still so much more to do, so many more prayers to answer. He’s not putting out fires; he’s just juggling the flames.

 _Observe,_ Vaska had said.

Jaskier is, damn it. He has paced himself and listened and is observing everything with an eagle eye. The children still cry, the adults still hurt. Hunger and hopelessness run wild, streaming around the spots of light that Jaskier has nurtured with his voice. At this rate, he can sing until the end of the world or until his body gives out, and it still won’t be enough.

And that’s when he understands.

He runs to Melitele, “I can’t help them all. It’s not a Task, it’s a test to see if I’ll understand that.”

Melitele smiles, a small, tempered thing. “Yes.”

“But why not? I was told our Chaos didn’t take a toll, but I’m practically fumes by now, why—”

“We may not be like the sorcerers, but there is still give and take, child, and you have given all you’ve got for now. We can work only with what is asked of us, nothing more. You’ve completed the Task and it is time to go.”

Jaskier backs away, “But… but what about the people here?”

She does not answer. Even gods fall short.

*

Melitele leads him away from the world, back to the Hall. She leaves him in Vaska’s capable hands and leaves with a simple, “You did well.”

From the corner of the Hall, near vibrating, Tisigaeto throws her son a single, regal nod and disappears.

“You alright?” Vaska asks carefully.

“Not really,” Jaskier croaks, reeling from the realization that maybe becoming a god won’t fix everything. Won’t even fix the half of it.

“I thought as much.” A beat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Well, it’s not, but it’s not like you wrote the rules of the universe, so.”

Vaska pats his hair. “Sadly not, _braciszek._ Now get dressed. We’re going to a revelry.”

Jaskier blinks. To quote his favourite Witcher: what.

*

Compared to the third Task, the fourth is almost child’s play. Mainly because Vaska details exactly what the purpose of the Task is.

“The third Task teaches you your limitations. How to answer a prayer, how this kind of power-usage drains you at your core. Used selfishly, we do not feel the drain on them, but in the service of others, we need a conduit to keep going. That is what separates us from sorcerers and what the fourth Task is concerned with: taking sustenance.”

“If you’re going to ask me to eat some dodgy fruit, I’m going to have to decline.”

Vaska rolls their eyes. “Not that kind of sustenance. I’m talking spiritually. A god needs worshippers. Look.”

They’ve arrived at a meadow. The trees are strung with colourful paper lanterns and an improvised alter has been erected from stones. Offerings of food and drink and votive clay figurines abound, and the people gathered here are all wearing loose-fitting red robes.

“These are my worshippers,” Vaska says, looking at each person like they know their every secret and keeps it safe and sound. “They have gathered to revel in my glory. And, incidentally, in yours, too.”

Jaskier is tired. Hungry, too, but not for food. The energy he spent trying to keep everyone at the camp going has left a deep, empty space in his torso, a gnawing, roaring feeling. He’s all for a party—really, he is. But not today. Today, he’s realized just how fragile he still is, and he wants to sleep and forget and dream of home.

“Tell me what to do,” he asks. _Let’s just get it over with._

Vaska guides him through it. When the dancing and chanting starts up, Jaskier joins in, invisible still. The change from the camp is immediately noticeable; where he had needed to join his voice to their cacophony, this is a symphony, and he is conducting it.

He sings of belonging, of hope, and love, and trust. Of recognizing the face in the mirror, of having people understand you. He puts all he’s got left into it, lets his own need wash away the hunger and the hurt. His voice breaks and misses a pitch, but somehow, he is answered. 

These voices ask for nothing. Instead, they open themselves up and let him in. The challenge is not in how to keep going, it’s in how to stop himself from being swept away. It’s not as easy as it seems; if he drops a note, the melody wavers and the energy surges.

“If you’re not careful, there’s gonna be an orgy soon,” Vaska calls, merrily dancing around, too.

“That’s not the deterrent you think it is!” Jaskier calls back. It’s starting to get to him, the revelry; the horrors of the camp lie almost forgotten, a feat of divinity that he does yet know to be wary of. Gods cannot dwell on every injustice of the world, or they would be useless. Already, Jaskier is cocooned by its effects, his heartbeat the rhythm of the dancing.

For a moment, nothing hurts.

Not even the thought of Geralt.

*

There does end up being an orgy, but Vaska declares the Task complete and boots him from the meadow. Spoilsport.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this chapter got very long, but it's also a really important one  
> it means that i can finally deploy i have been DYING to use since i began writing this, i.e. "it's my fic and *I* get to decide who gets resurrected"
> 
> i am not sorry for a single thing
> 
> also: i know Coram Agh Tera is male in the original story, but i only just found out, so a goddess she remains in this

Geralt strongly suspects that Destiny is conspiring against him, but what else is new.

No matter how quickly he moves, he is always too late to catch Jaskier. On the days he has to stay for a while because of a job, Jaskier doesn’t appear to have moved at all, the rumour of his presence only reaching Geralt after the job is done. Like a carrot dangled at the end of a stick, tethered to Geralt but just out of reach.

A fitting penance, really.

He hasn’t caught sight of the pale-eyed mercenary again, but some days, he feels her eyes on him still. It crawls up the back of his neck and loops itself around his throat like a noose. On those days, he’s tense and silent, not even talking to Roach. People give him a wide berth, but he’s not yet been run out of a village for ‘disturbing the peace’ or whatever other excuse humans use to keep Witchers out of sight, out of mind. 

They have other things to worry about, especially the rumours coming up from the south. People are starting to talk of an oncoming war—they have talked of an oncoming war for almost a decade now, but now it consumes them. Nilfgaard has grown stronger, their emperor stops at nothing, they will come, no one is safe.

Geralt would pay the rumours less attention if he hadn’t already heard them in the far north. Yarpen Zigrin and his men had talked of war, too. Geralt had seen real fear in their eyes (and if he’d dulled an instinctive stab of worry, had banished the thought of Cintra and a child he’s never seen, then that’s his business and no one else’s.)

Still, with every whisper, his soul seeks to pull him south-west rather than merely south. Some nights, he watches the sun set and tries to burn the memory of Pavetta’s startled face from his mind, her reluctant surrender as Geralt called the Law of Surprise. He holds it close and tells himself that with her and Calanthe at the child’s side, no one could ever harm them.

And he continues south, to Jaskier.

You can always trust Jaskier to be in more dire straits than Geralt’s Child of Surprise.

Though this far from a big city, it has got to be limited how much trouble even the bard could get into.

*

“I didn’t want to pet you anyway!” Jaskier screeches and gestures rudely at the big, two-tailed leopard on the other side of the gorge. The cat chuffs at him, tails whipping, but thankfully doesn’t try to jump across.

When Jaskier gets back to the Hall, he’s going to murder Vaska. ‘It’s not going to be that hard,’ they’d said, ‘a bit of ingenuity and you’re done, move along.’ Fuck Vaska and the horse they rode in on. Actually, fuck the person who reared the horse, too.

He’d let himself be lulled into complacency, beguiled by Dana Meadbh as so many have been before. The Goddess of the Wild, the Queen of the Fields. She may look like a vision of loveliness in her human glory, all flowing hair and curvy limbs, but her true form speaks of a much different creature. Then, she is wind through leaves, tangled, old roots, and a predator’s grin.

But his weakness for pretty faces hasn’t been cured.

He’d been so enchanted by her, he’d barely even heard what she’d said. “My Task is of a different kind than what you’ve mastered thus far. It does not require you to overcome obstacles or muddle through Chaos. You must simply go deep into the forests of this sphere and find an emissary, the creature that most suits your soul and thus shall become your symbol. They will go where you cannot and be your tether, no matter how far from you they wander.”

He’d nodded and smiled and tried not to drool all over himself.

The other gods and their emissaries had come to see him off just for this. The beautiful, giant doe at Melitele’s side, the multiplying bees buzzing around Dana Meadbh herself. The too-watchful spider on the dark goddess’ shoulder, the winged lion at his mother’s side. And most of all, Vaska’s strange, little creature Nada; an oversized rabbit with the antlers of a stag and the wings of a bird of prey.

“She’s a wolpertinger,” Vaska had proudly said, petting Nada’s soft ears. The bond between them was clear and strong, just as between the other gods and emissaries, and Jaskier had immediately ached for that.

“You’ll know when you find them,” Dana Meadbh had said. “It’ll feel _right_.”

Easy, right? Jaskier is very in touch with his emotions, he’ll know right away.

Jaskier is also a godsdamned idiot.

*

It’s been three days of camping in the wild, three days of Jaskier remembering why he hates _camping in the wild_ , and three days of Jaskier accosting a large number of odd animals, all of whom had felt ‘right’ when he laid eyes on them. 

The two-tailed leopard is just the latest (and rudest; it’d tried to take a bite of him!) in a long line of animals to reject Jaskier’s attempt to win them over. (He tells himself that if he can win over Roach, the prickliest horse in the entire world, then this will not defeat him.)

(That admonishment would work better if he didn’t resent every single minute spent alone out here. He’s a wandering bard, yes, but he’s a city boy at heart, a city boy who needs attention and human company, and the only reason he’s survived travelling as far as he has is because most of that journey had not been made on his lonesome.)

Not that he wants Geralt here. He is trying to prove himself capable without him, after all.

Except that he really wants Geralt here, and he’s haunted by the niggling feeling that he’s not proving anything to anyone anymore. If Geralt were to spontaneously appear and apologize, Jaskier would abandon this path without a thought—except that’s not just unlikely, it’s entirely impossible. He’s come too far to turn away now (and besides, Geralt doesn’t apologize. Ever. But Jaskier can dream).

He stalks away from the gorge, still throwing offended glances over his shoulder as he pats at his torn doublet. It is real silk! How dare that leopard! Jaskier will devote a slanderous ditty entirely to that creature and its reputation will be _ruined forever_!

He makes his way back to camp and throws himself down on his bedroll with a huff. He reaches for his lute, the only company he has. Might as well get a head-start on that ditty. None of the animals here react to his playing and singing anyway (which Jaskier finds to be an egregious outrage; how the fuck else is he supposed to lure them in?)

Brooding pettily, he ruminates on his failures and hums a hundred dandelions to life, each flower turned towards him rather than the sun hanging low in the sky. It’s always sunset here; the world of the gods must be entirely magical to be able to sustain itself. He’d be more in awe of that if he wasn’t, you know, on the path to godhood. Even sunsets start to lose their touch when it’s the only sight around.

What animal might make a good emissary for a bard god? He’s tried various birds, nightingales and starlings and everything colourful and musical; he’s even gotten some to whistle to his tune, but they’d fled the second he moved closer. He’s tried the wolves that run through the woods (and no, that choice had had nothing to do with Geralt). (Except he’d really wanted the _white_ one to notice him.) They hadn’t even spared him a glance.

He’d kept trying. Hoofed, clawed, winged, furred, scaled; all manner of creatures had caught his eye. No luck. At this pace, he’ll be stuck in this Trial forever, getting slapped around by bears and crocodiles and maybe even wyverns, if he’s unlucky enough. He should’ve suspected foul play when Dana Meadbh hadn’t given him a deadline.

But it’s fine. He can do it.

*

It’s not fine and he can’t do it.

Jaskier has spent an entire week in this godsforsaken forest and there’s still no end in sight. If it wasn’t for all the humming and singing, his voice would surely have atrophied from disuse (a tragedy to end all tragedies). He hates it out here. He can’t hunt for food (not that he’d be particularly good at it, but even a geriatric squirrel would be a delicacy at this point), only has the odd, bread-like morsels that Vaska had given him.

“It’s unwise to cook in the forest,” they’d said. “Might attract something you don’t want to cross.”

At this point, Jaskier is willing to risk dragons for something tastier than the damn bread. It doesn’t taste of _anything_ , not even bread, that yeasty, divine goodness; it’s texture-less, tasteless sustenance that fills his belly with just one bite. The long-lost hardtack at the bottom of Geralt’s pack has more going for it than this pitiful bread does.

He has _had enough._

Irritated and needing to voice it, he climbs a small cliff. At the peak—if it can even be called that, it is not that high—he stands on the edge and looks out over the forest, the sea of trees swaying in the gentle breeze. He plants his feet, takes a deep breath.

And screams his frustration into the world.

Now that he’s got control of his powers, he doesn’t cause any earthquakes, doesn’t even stir the leaves with the golden strains of his voice. The only thing that happens is that weeds of all kinds grow around him, some even climbing his legs to lovingly reach for his hands and face.

He screams, and he shouts, and he yells, and still it becomes a song. A strange, tuneless song, but a song, nonetheless. What has he got to lose? He hasn’t attracted an emissary by being courteous (mostly), so he might as well let the last creatures know what he’s really about. And that is music and spite and just a little bit of theatrics.

When he finally stops to breathe, his voice is still echoing through the forest, but nothing else stirs. It feels good to have gotten that out. He dusts himself off and turns away—

Something calls back to him. A cry; shrill and perfect and sonorous.

Jaskier spins on his heel, peers intently into the distance. A small shape emerges above the treeline, bird-like and quick. It’s flying as if chased, moving so fast he can’t get a proper look at it. His heartbeat picks up. This is it, it worked, Jaskier _did it_ —

Its speed also keeps it from slowing down, and it collides with Jaskier’s face. They both go down, squawking indignantly.

Then he gets the first good look of his emissary and falls in love at once.

*

Jaskier sashays into the Hall, arm outstretched to better showcase his new (amazing, outstanding, glorious) emissary. “Behold!” he calls, waving his free hand like a town-square magician, “the mighty… Pegaz!”

The reaction he gets is… not quite what he’d expected.

The dark goddess whom he still doesn’t look at too carefully tilts her head in contemplation, something almost like fascination flittering across her non-face. Dana Meadbh, Melitele, and Vaska simply blink in astonishment. And Tisigaeto? Tisigaeto takes one look at Pegaz, stands, and storms out, her winged lion on her heels.

Jaskier shrugs. She’s just jealous that he got a phoenix for his emissary.

The bird is golden and glowing softly, its plumage a rush of fiery shades. He’s about the size and shape of a falcon, with a fanciful crest and long tailfeathers, and he casts no shadow. He nuzzles Jaskier’s hair lovingly, rubbing his little face against the crown of Jaskier’s head. Jaskier’s already forgiven him for leaving bruises on his face.

Now, Jaskier understands what Dana Meadbh had meant by ‘feels right’. Having Pegaz near is a bit like stepping into your home after a long journey. A weight off your shoulders, an ease in your step. Pegaz’s thoughts flitter across Jaskier’s, not as much words as impressions—though Jaskier will learn that if he concentrates properly, he can make out a more defined voice. (He’ll also learn that Pegaz speaks like an old-timey beggar child, which is all sorts of weird.)

“An unexpected choice,” Dana Meadbh finally says, very, very politely.

Vaska adds, “Jaskier, do you know what that is?”

“Phoenix, obviously.”

“Uh, no, not a phoenix.”

Jaskier blinks. Looks at Pegaz, who looks back and seemingly shakes his head. Barely twenty minutes at Jaskier’s side, and he’s already taken on an eerily humane air with both facial expressions and gestures. 

“That’s a firebird,” Vaska tells him, approaching them cautiously with Nada peeking out from behind their shins. Before Jaskier can say, ‘that’s even better!’ and list the numerous tales he’s heard of firebirds, they add, “Both a blessing and an omen to those who possess them.”

“Look at this face, Vaska.” Jaskier frames Pegaz’s face with his hand, emphasizing the bird’s long lashes and big, dark eyes. Pegaz coos charmingly. He’s got quite the vocal range. “Is this the face of an omen? Who’s a good little blessing? You are. Yes, you are!”

Vaska rolls their eyes. “I’m just saying—be on your guard. Your emissary is your power made flesh. Pegaz being a firebird means there’re trials to come.”

“Well, yes, I do still have the last Trials—” Jaskier says, deliberately misunderstanding. He’s a little offended that Vaska isn’t throwing him a feast for having found Pegaz—that was a really tough Trial, alright? He deserves some recognition.

A clawed, oddly jointed hand lands on Jaskier’s shoulder, and a voice like an avalanche whispers, “If you be ready for the next Trial…”

Jaskier turns slowly, and the abyss stares back.

*

There is a cult of the Nordling pantheon which exists only in secret. A cult to a deity both cruel and cunning, a cult of sacrifice, blood, and death. Outside the cult, people rarely speak the name, fearing the gaze of evil on them. The Lion-Headed Spider, the Weaver of the Web.

It’s so secret that only the true acolytes know that Coram Ag Tera is not a god, but a godd _ess_.

Even Jaskier hadn’t known; it’s why he’s never called her by name until now. It’s been a few days since the last Trial, and now, Tera—as she insists that he call her—leads him down, down, down, into a sphere far from any other. Alone with her, he avoids staring straight at her, his skin rippling with terror and his insides trying to evacuate his body through his throat.

He’d be running in the other direction if he wasn’t also strangely fascinated by her. (That, and he never was very good at running from monsters. See: the past twenty years of his life.)

“Soooo,” he says, because he talks when he’s nervous (and every other time, too). “What’s this Trial?” And why couldn’t Vaska come? Jaskier really thinks it should be a rule that he can bring Vaska everywhere. He couldn’t even bring Pegaz (and had thrown quite a tantrum about that. Tera had ended up hauling him away by the ear, completely unmoved). His lute is once again his only company.

The goddess looks over her shoulder and smiles. He’d really wish she didn’t. There are sadistic, cannibalistic sharks with more charming smiles than she. “What do you know of death, child?”

“Well, I’d kind of been hoping that that was for other people, you know. That it wasn’t something gods had to bother with.”

“They do. And they don’t.” She turns to him fully, and he looks away. “Gods die, too. But they do not die like people do. True death is peace, child. It’s the road there that’s hard. A god may wither and fade if there is no cult to maintain them, or they may be slain by another god or monster. In either case, the god may rise again, for true death is beyond us.”

“That’s… good?”

She shakes her head very, very slowly. “All souls will know peace in the end. Evil, good. It does not matter; they wander through Hell, lost for however long they must to earn their place in the After, and there, they rest at last. All souls—except ours. For us, the walk never ends. We are lost and not; dead and not. Doomed to see the end and live it again and again.”

Jaskier glances around. It’s so dark here, he cannot even make out the walls. They could be in a cavern and he wouldn’t even know. They could also be in a shallow hallway, or the edge of the cliff. The only visible creature is the goddess—a mass of shadow and corpse-pale flesh—and himself.

“What is the Task?” he asks again, dreading the answer.

She places her hand on his face. He almost retches at her touch. “You will be lost many times in your eternal life. It is our way. To become a god, you must prove that you can survive our small deaths.” She strokes his cheek, motherly and repugnant at once. “Be strong, child. I will come for you again.”

Then, she’s gone.

And Jaskier gets his first true vision of Hell.

*

The place itself is not so bad. Jaskier would even call it beautiful, if ghostly and pale.

The sky is filled with stars unlike any he’s ever seen. There’s no north or south, no east or west. Things move and change. There’s no knowing where he might be headed, or if he’s even moved at all. He may be going in circles; he may be going in a straight line.

If he ever dies, he’s pretty certain he’ll be mad by the time he resurrects.

He walks through a ghostly grove, the trees bearing plenty of fruit. He’s heard tales that you should never partake of Hell’s bounty, but neither Vaska nor Tera had warned against it, and besides, he can’t _not_ taste ghost pomegranates. (For the record: they taste as sweet as the real thing.)

Honestly, it’d all be almost pleasant if it weren’t for the way his memories sometimes elude him, whole years disappearing if he doesn’t beware. He’s forgotten his purpose here more than once, and instantly, horror blooms in his chest; only when he remembers does it subside. And then there are the lost souls.

They are a stark look at what he can become if he ever suffers a divine death. These flickering, angry shades, caged in Hell for so long that they’ve lost any thought of there being an end to their suffering. They cannot eat, he notices; they reach for the fruit, and it shies from their hands. They try to rest, but they cannot.

Some are plagued by terrors, little games that Hell plays on them in their minds. The shrieks keep Jaskier informed of their whereabouts, their moans constant companions. He tries to stay away from them; the first time he’d encountered one, he’d tried to help, only to lose consciousness. When he came to again, he’d torn at his skin, leaving bloody gouges.

He cannot help them; if he tries, he becomes one of them.

And so, he walks alone, muttering under his breath, repeating his own name, his own story, his own path to keep sane.

And then, he meets _her_.

*

The soul is worse than any other he’s encountered. Wrapped in rage and despair, her voice rises and falls in long, ululating cries. She’s hurting. She’s lost. But she has not forgotten who she was, and that is both worse and better, for she cannot yet leave, will not have rest. She may even be cursed to suffer as a god will, only with no hope of resurrection.

Jaskier knows who she is.

He’s never met her before in life, wouldn’t know her face in a crowd. Maybe it’s his godhood that enables him to look at her and trace familiar features, or maybe he has chased her story so often that to see her is to remember every word. Pale skin, red lips, beauty beyond compare.

There once was a princess as fair as the spring…

There once was an eclipse as dark as a winter’s night…

There once was a sorcerer intent to end her life…

There once was a Witcher, caught in the middle.

Renfri does not see him, or perhaps she simply can’t. The shades that are truly broken have lost the ability to see beyond their own suffering. Nothing else exists for them, not an ending or a beginning, nothing beyond the pain of the now.

Jaskier stands agape, staring at her. It’s as if a bolt has gone through him, splitting open his whole chest. Seconds go by, minutes, hours; little eternities. Renfri stands burning, unable to move, unable to even contemplate it. She is an effigy made flesh.

Jaskier should turn his back and leave. He can do nothing for her. But…

It is pity that moves him to strum his lute. Pity and something like penance. (If he ever sees Geralt again, he wants to tell him that he tried. That he didn’t just abandon her. That maybe, he even brought her peace, if only for a moment.)

“I know the man who felled you,” he tells her. She doesn’t even twitch. “I know that he is sorry. I know he didn’t want to. I know the choice he made. He never wanted to tell me your story, so I made it up from scraps. If you catch me in a lie… please don’t scratch my eyes out, yeah?”

He sings.

He sings of princesses born under a black sun. Of the cruelty that stole their lives, one by one. He sings of Renfri of Creyden and the suffering she endured before she died. Of the rage in her heart and the fire in her soul. He sings and understands. Why she set down her dark path, why she sought to lay waste to her tormentors. He cannot fault her, even if he shrinks from her choices.

And then, he changes the story.

He’d written this part to make Geralt smile. Had turned it into something kinder, something victorious. The princess didn’t die—she only slept. Away from the prying eyes of self-righteous madmen, her wounds healed and her eyes opened. (It never did make Geralt smile. Sometimes, Jaskier thinks it even hurt him. He’s not sung it in years.)

With every word, the princess quiets more. She still rocks back and forth, locked in place, but her eyes are no longer as glazed. She even fixes her gaze more-or-less in Jaskier’s direction, as if the song reaches her through the fog.

His voice is gold, twining around her.

And suddenly, she’s gone.

Jaskier feels the crack of the world. “What—oh, fuck. Oh, _shit_.”

*

In Blaviken, in the forest, there’s an unmarked grave. It was dug by the villagers to hide a girl known only to them as the Shrike. Most have forgotten her now, even if the tales of the Butcher are still remembered. The sorcerer made it so; much easier to carry out his last experiments when no one thought of the girl.

His magic lingers here still, an oil-slick taint.

But all of a sudden… it breaks. Awash in gold, weeds sprouting over the grave.

The earth shifts.

A hand struggling upwards, followed by an arm, a head, trembling shoulders. She kicks and she struggles and she breaks free, gasping for breath. A deep scar on her neck, but the rest of her porcelain perfect. Clothed as she was when she died.

There’s a name on the tip of her tongue, but she cannot yet speak it. This bothers her, superseding even the rage that’s kept her going for so long. The only thing she’s had since she was but a child, the only thing she brought with her from life to death and now back to life. Another chance. 

Renfri rolls onto her back, weary. But gaining strength.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to say, from the bottom of my heart: my bad
> 
> PLEASE REMEMBER THAT THIS IS NOT A MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH FIC  
> I APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR WHAT I'M ABOUT TO DO TO YOU
> 
> warnings  
> \- major character injury  
> \- IM SORRY

Jaskier has been banished from the Hall while the gods debate what to do with him. _Vaska_ has been banished from the Hall because they can’t stop cackling. They and Jaskier are currently slap-fighting for a prime spot in front of the keyhole. Because you’re never too old to listen in at the door.

On the floor, Pegaz preens fretfully; Nada suffers his attentions with grace.

It’s not looking bad, exactly, it’s just not looking that good either. Melitele keeps rubbing her temples. Soplatya, the bastard, is arguing that this means that Jaskier’s place among the gods is forfeit (thankfully, very few appear to be listening to him). Coram Agh Tera is largely ignoring everyone and flirting with Dana Meadbh instead, thoroughly distracting the other goddess.

Most curiously of all is Tisigaeto, who sits quietly in her seat, petting her winged lion—whom Jaskier has only just found out is called Rhamnousia. There’s a slight smirk on her face, something almost proud, if also exasperated. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with this.

“Stop worrying,” Vaska tells him, holding Jaskier off with a single finger on his forehead. It’s really not fair that Vaska is currently three times taller than Jaskier; there should be rules about fair fighting in the Hall. “They’re going to let you pass.”

“They don’t sound like they’re going to let me pass,” Jaskier argues worriedly, slapping at Vaska’s finger. The gods keep talking about responsibility and accountability, both things that make Jaskier break out in hives. He’d very much like it noted that no one informed him that spontaneous resurrection was something he had to be on the lookout for. He wouldn’t have done it if he knew he could! (… He may have done it anyway.)

“Relax,” Vaska says in the most annoying big-sibling voice in the world. Affront makes Jaskier climb their skirts to squawk directly in their ear.

When the gods find them, they’re wrestling on the floor; Vaska is lying down, having been briefly overcome when Jaskier found their ticklish spot, and is holding Jaskier above their head like you’d hold up a toddler. Jaskier is kicking and cursing.

They both freeze and turn slowly to the other gods.

Melitele sighs, but rallies. “We have made our decision. You have completed the Task; Tera sees no reason to punish you, and as Hell _is_ her realm, she had the final vote—”

“ _Yessssss_!”

“ _However_ ,” Melitele continues, putting some sternness into her voice. “You will be responsible for Renfri. She will be bound to you as your paladin—” Jaskier is going to die _._ They’ve set him up to _die._ There’s simply no way Renfri is going to accept that and she’s _stabby._ “—though Order knows what a god of music would need a paladin for, and when you have ascended, you’ll inform her of this yourself. If you fail to ascend, her life is forfeit.”

Jaskier squawks. “ _You’re going to kill her_?”

“ _No_. But she cannot be allowed to go unchecked, not with her powers and the god-touch on her soul. Tisigaeto has agreed to take her on, should it come to this.”

Now that’s unexpected. Jaskier’s brows jump and he looks to the goddess of vengeance, mutely demanding an explanation. She meets his gaze steadily, neutral as ever. He’ll get no answers from her.

“Thank you,” he finds the wits to say, both to the gods at large and to his mother, specifically. This, his gratitude, makes her look away. “What happens now?”

“I’d advice you to send your emissary to keep an eye on her. Both because your ascendance will be hard on her, being connected to you by way of Chaos, but also because Pegaz cannot be by your side for the final Trial. Vaska, prepare him, would you?”

With that, Melitele takes her leave.

*

Geralt stops only to let Roach rest, even splurging on a proper stable for once. There, she gets rubbed down and fed oats, and can even lie down on soft hay if she so wishes. He doesn’t do this often enough. If she wasn’t so fond of him, she’d have kicked him out of her life for that sin alone. 

The stall is big enough that he can squeeze himself into it alongside her, and the stablehand—a young boy with stars in his eyes and foolish courage in his heart—promises to keep a lookout for the stablemaster. He’s a good lad (even if he keeps humming _Toss a Coin_ as he works).

First, however, Geralt needs to do some reconnaissance to ensure he’s still on the right track. While most would assume that Jaskier would stick to the road, Geralt knows that there’s no end of reasons why the bard might seek out a less-travelled path—not good reasons, but reasons like ‘for the sights, Geralt!’, ‘for the inspiration, Geralt!’, and ‘you don’t understand, Geralt!’

Jaskier never had much sense. It’s never stopped Geralt from coming back to him.

His scouting proves futile. No one in the small village has encountered Jaskier, even if they recognize his name—and Geralt himself—at once. He retreats quickly, shying from prying eyes. At least the stablehand can be counted on to leave him alone, even if said peace comes at the price of whistled renditions of Jaskier’s songs. If Geralt has to listen to _Her Sweet Kiss_ one more time…

He’ll have to stick to the road and hope it’s the right track.

On the way back to the stables, he passes a merchant selling jewellery. Geralt doesn’t usually stop at such stalls; he has no need of frippery, rarely has the coin for it even if he did, but his eyes catch and hold on a small medallion. It’s a simple thing, made of glass and hung on a gilded chain, but it’s what’s encapsulated in the glass that makes him pause. Buttercups. _Jaskier._

Before he can think too carefully on it, he asks, “How much?”

The price makes him want to wince.

He tells himself it’ll count towards an apology and pays it anyway.

*

“You’ll be stripped of your powers,” Vaska says, delicately arranging their magnificent skirts around them. “For the last Trial you’ll be fully human for the last time in your life. All you must do is get a single person to say your name before sunset—and no, you cannot say your name yourself, that doesn’t count. Someone must remember you for who you were, must say your name with conviction. If you ascend, it’ll be your name no more. If you do not manage it, the Trial is forfeit.”

That sounds a lot like the first Trial, just without the use of his power and with a few adjustments, but no way is Jaskier going to point that out. “What happens if I fail?”

Vaska looks at him gravely. “The truth will not put you at ease.”

Well, then. That’s… ominous. “Tell me anyway.”

“Alright. There are no other ascended demigods. Most never walk the Path, and those who try… they fail this last Task. No one speaks their name, they lose their way, forget themselves. What happens after, I do not know. Not even Tera does.” They add, “But I have total faith in you.”

“Oh, that’s alright then.” It’s not alright, what the fuck, Vaska. What’s a boy got to do to get a little assurance around here?

*

He gets a single day to come to terms with it all. He spends most of it frantically keeping himself busy, drawing up semi-crude designs for his godly abode (he wants a cottage, except he also wants a manor, and a closet as big as a whole country, and a stable for—he doesn’t need a stable, no one with a horse will be visiting him here). There’s a hollowness inside him that he hadn’t expected, a hollowness born of goodbyes he cannot say. Friends he’s left behind, love he’s turned his back on.

Most of all, there’s Geralt.

It’s a really inconvenient moment for his spite to abandon him. Really inconsiderate to leave him here with an as yet un-mended heart. Saints, he hadn’t even realized he’d moved through the last stages of grief to arrive at acceptance.

He’d fucked up. Geralt had fucked up a whole lot more, but Jaskier had absolutely known that approaching Geralt in that moment on the mountain was bound to get a reaction. He should’ve let him grieve alone—Geralt never does well with people knowing he has actual emotions. Maybe then, they’d be together now, on the road to some hell-hole town with a monster infestation.

What a thing to miss.

But this was his choice. And despite knowing what he’s leaving behind, he cannot regret it entirely. It’s gotten him Vaska, and Pegaz, and the truth about himself. Hell, it’s even got him—

There’s a knock on the door.

Tisigaeto is in her human form, wrapped in armour. Her hair is out of its braids, for the first time since Jaskier’s known her; it’s shorter than he’d expected it to be. She comes to stand beside him, leaving a foot of space between them.

“Nothing to say?” Jaskier cannot resist asking. “No admonishments for the misuse of my powers?”

She looks at him steadily. Even the shape of their eyes is the same. “I believe I’ve already lamented your lack of restraint and aired my grievances against you. There’s nothing more to say on that matter.”

Good ol’ mum. You can always count on her to keep him humble (and slightly depressed). He scoffs but doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with her now.

Mother and son stand there in silence, looking out on the gardens. Rhamnousia prowls through the undergrowth, not really hunting anything, just enjoying her respite. She’s a truly glorious animal, all golden fur and eyes, her wings those of an owl. (Pegaz is more superior, of course, but he’s already flown off to keep watch on Renfri).

Abruptly, Tisigaeto puts her hand on his shoulder, squeezes. “Be strong, Julian. Keep your head. And above all else, don’t forget why you came here.”

Nothing more is said.

*

The final Trial is to be completed in a familiar city. Jaskier looks around, racking his brain; what’s the name of this place again? _Why_ is it so familiar? A city on an isle in a grand lake, buildings made from white brick. A grand castle and smaller manses dotting the hillsides. A long, lovely bridge connects the city proper to the mainland where the commoners live. To the west, a mountain range looms, snowy peaks and dark rock. Why can’t he bloody remember—

The waving flag at top of a tower is blue and white, decorated with golden lions and red lozenges. Rivia. He’s in Rivia.

“Oh, the irony,” he mumbles and sets to work.

He just needs one person to say his name. How hard can it be? (Jaskier knows that thinking that is hubris, but he does it anyway, and oh, how he regrets that.)

It’s like the city has a vendetta against saying his name. No matter how many taverns he barges into, no one calls his name, not a single fucking person. At best, he’ll get happy cries of ‘master bard!’ But his actual name? No dice.

An hour goes by, then another. Midday passes, afternoon beckons. Then, he runs into the girl.

Or rather, she runs into him. Careens around a corner and knocks them both flat; they go down in a flurry of pinwheeling arms and messy skirts. Jaskier curses and she cries, so he immediately apologizes. Then realizes it’s not his cursing making her cry.

“Help me,” she begs, clutching at his arms. Her face is tearstained and blotchy. She’s so very young. “Please, help me, please—”

“It’s alright, it’s alright, calm down,” he says, “My name is Jaskier, what’s your name? It’ll be okay, I’ll help you, shh.”

Her name is Doreen. And she’s being hunted for witchcraft.

*

Geralt startles from his meditation, blinking against the harsh light. He feels ill, like he’s coming down from too many potions, his skin tight and itchy, his insides rebelling. He packs his things and saddles up, only pausing to thank the stablehand, who beams at the recognition.

He rides out at a trot. When he finds Jaskier, all will be well.

*

Without his powers, Jaskier can’t do a whole lot for Doreen, not in a way that’ll fix everything and allow her to stay here. Still, helping her escape the city will go a long way.

“Fucking Kreve cult assholes,” he curses all the way, peering around corners and sneaking through alleys with the terrified girl on his heels. If he can just get her to the outskirts of the city where the caravans break for business or simply shade, if he can just put her on a wagon and see her off, maybe, _maybe_ they won’t catch her. “The first thing I’m going to do when I get back is punch Kreve in the fucking face.”

“What?” Doreen whispers.

“Nothing, sweet girl, just talking to myself.”

They get across the bridge without incident. Jaskier blusters and flails and makes a general nuisance of himself, keeping the Rivians’ eyes from lingering too long on Doreen. It doesn’t matter that they’ll notice him; he’ll be gone by sunset and a god besides.

Somehow, they make it.

The caravans are loading up when they arrive, people of all sorts bustling about. Jaskier’s gaze flickers between wagons, dismissing a number of them with just a look. Too many travellers, going will be slow; that convoy is going back into the city; this group won’t be leaving for hours yet.

Finally, he finds a suitable caravan.

“Can I help you, boy?” a shrewd-eyed woman asks. She’s short and stout, with olive skin, dark eyes, and calloused, work-roughed hands. Not a tradeswoman, but a nomad, if Jaskier is any judge. A half-hidden pendant peeks out from the folds of her shirt, a pendant wrought with the symbol of Lilvani, Goddess of the Moon and Mysteries. Not a woman to shy from (alleged) witchcraft then.

“Depends,” Jaskier says, taking care to keep Doreen behind him. “How soon are you leaving?”

“Right this moment,” she says, climbing into her wagon as she speaks.

“Any room for another passenger?”

She eyes Doreen over his shoulder. “Room for one or for two?” She pats her stomach subtly, asking without asking. A little rude of her to assume that he’d get a girl pregnant and then just send her away, but there’s no time for indignance.

“Just one. And quickly.” He relays the story. The nomad asks no more questions.

“Thank you,” Doreen says, teary-eyed once more. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Think nothing of it,” Jaskier says, squeezing her hand. “Just do me a favour. Say my name?”

She frowns, but nods. “J—”

A knight bearing Kreve’s sigil careens into the square.

“Shit, go! Get out of here, I’ll stall them, just get out—”

*

Doreen is safe. Jaskier takes some small comfort from that.

He, however, is dragged through the streets towards the docks, bound and hemmed on all sides. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , good sense tells him. _You did the right thing,_ his heart says. He has to believe that; he sacrificed his best chance yet to create a diversion for Doreen and the nomad to get away clean, making such a racket that the knight had no choice but to pay attention to him and only him.

He’d been safe, he’d thought. It wasn’t him they were looking for.

Wrong.

“I saw him with the witch,” someone claims, one voice joined by many others. “He helped her escape!” It’s all downhill from there.

A hierophant of the Cult of the Forefather is in attendance, and he is not happy. He looks at Jaskier with venom and does not appreciate Jaskier’s catty answers to his interrogation. Where’s the girl? _You’re going to have to be more specific, I meet so many girls, I’m quite the connoisseur_. Why did you help her? _I’d help anyone for a kiss. Except you; you’re not really my type. I like my men tall and brooding._ Who are you? _What! Haven’t you heard of me? I’m Jaskier! Master bard, graduate of—_

The hierophant stops him in his tracks. “The Witcher’s bard.”

“Well, he’s more my Witcher than I am his bard,” Jaskier hedges. 

And with that, he seals his fate.

*

No one does him the honour of saying his name; it’s the least they could so, and yes, he’s fixating on that to keep calm. He can’t let the fear get to him. The gods will come; they’ll stop this. Nothing bad will happen to him. He repeats the words again and again, curses and growls and fights as he’s tied to a stake. A crowd has gathered by the lakeside to watch; they roar and jeer and do nothing to help him. Not even the people he recognizes from the taverns, the ones who’d welcomed him and cheered at the sight of him.

There’s no mercy to be found.

“Vaska, please,” he begs. He’s bound and immobile, drenched in holy oil. The hierophant leads the crowd in prayer, asking Kreve to be cleanse them of their sins, to celebrate their achievement; they have struck against evil, against Witchers, against Chaos and magic and all those things they call foul. The bard is a sacrifice made in the name of Order. “Vaska, it’s not funny, Vaska, I know you can hear me—” and “Melitele, please,” and finally, “Tisigaeto, if you ever loved my mother—”

No one comes for him.

The torch has been lit while he was distracted. The hierophant carries it closer and closer, eyes shining with fanaticism. And Jaskier realizes that he is alone. That he will die. But he will not die begging.

When the torch touches the timber beneath him, he sings.

He sings a curse into existence, of horror and wild things; of howling, hungry wolves. The stars will fall and darkness will come. Even then, he has enough compassion left to weave protection for the children and the innocent. They are not to blame. The rest? The rest will suffer. He just has to believe it. He will not die for nothing.

But there’s no power in his voice, no strains of gold to save him. Still, he sings, he screams, he cries. Despite it being purely song, the people tremble; they fear him. The baying for his blood stops as realization settles in; they’re killing him. They’re _delighting_ in it. This is what they’ve become.

At last, he begs, barely audible, “Remember me.”

And catches fire.

*

Geralt spots the smoke first.

Smoke is never a good sign. In the wild, it means either a campfire and possible enemies, or it means a forest fire just begun. Either way, he usually heads in the other direction. In cities, it’s even worse; it’ll be a burning house or an execution. Geralt will be too late to be of any help with the former and has no taste for the latter; why humans think themselves better when they enjoy the suffering of their own like this, he’ll never know.

Then, the smell reaches him.

An execution for sure. Burning flesh is hard to mistake. It’s enough to put you off meat for a few days, even a week. If it weren’t for Jaskier, Geralt would turn around right now, but the caravan he’s just passed had mentioned seeing a bard of his description in the city. Why go to Rivia, of all places? Geralt will never understand Jaskier’s flights of fancy—

There’s another scent carried on the wind, merged with roasting flesh and bonfire. It’s… familiar, almost. But _wrong_ , twisted with pain and fear and despair. It smells like… like…

Geralt’s heart starts pounding.

He spurs Roach faster; they were already going at a fast clip, but now, they gallop. He has no care for the people they encounter; it’s up to them to jump out of his way. They don’t even register. His head is a chorus of denials, a long, drawn-out _no, no, no._

The lakeside is flooded with people. They’re all in a tizzy, horror painted on every face, mashing terribly with the glee they’d felt just minutes earlier when they were crying out for so-called justice and divine punishment. Even the Cult members are leaving in a hurry, their righteousness replaced by worry. They whisper of dark magic and vengeance, but Geralt doesn’t hear a single word.

He makes his way to the smouldering pyre unseeing, unaware.

It’s a typical pyre, hastily constructed but obviously made with care and skill. A few pieces of wood still burn, still carry the smell of Kreve’s holy oil, that awful mixture that makes the flames burn hotter and faster. Expediency matters more to the Cult than spectacle.

It means that Geralt is too late.

There’s almost nothing left. A scrap of bright, red silk, somehow escaped, a boot buckle. The oil leaves nearly nothing behind, just dust to be dispersed by the wind. At the foot of a half-intact wooden stake lies a pile of ashes. All that is left of… of—

Geralt’s ears are ringing.

He kneels slowly, trying to wake up. It’s just a nightmare, it’s not real. It _can’t_ be real. But it is, it’s all real, he’s here, and Jaskier is… Jaskier is—

The White Wolf of Kaer Morhen does not throw his head back and howl. With careful hands, he reaches for the ashes, fingers shaking. Amongst them, he finds more bone shards, even a few teeth. His stomach heaves. He closes his eyes.

Witchers, it is said, cannot cry. Like so many other things said about Witchers, this, too, is false. It’s not that they cannot cry; it’s just that it’s difficult, even painful. Their mutagens change their bodies in many ways, some unintended. One such way is the altering of their tear ducts, leaving them largely dried out and prone to bleeding if agitated.

Still, crying _is_ possible. Geralt barely feels it, barely smells the tinge of blood and salt on his cheeks. He’s bent over, kneeling in the ashes like a man about to be sick, one hand clutching at the buttercup medallion in his pocket. He’s too late. It’s too late. He never apologized. His last words were borne of rage. Jaskier is—

“Jaskier,” he stutters brokenly as the sun sets. No other words come.

*

Far, far away, as Geralt speaks that name, Renfri falls to her knees. The odd bird that’s been following her shrieks, a long, sad cry that pierces her to the marrow. Her body convulses and she shakes, eyes rolling back. It’s not the first time that day, so she’s not particularly surprised by it, just pissed that it keeps happening and she doesn’t know why.

The name that’s been lain dormant on her tongue rises now. “He is come,” she gasps, unseeing, full of joy she doesn’t recognize. “Julek, God of Songs and Stories, the Prince of Weeds and Unwanted Things.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi folks! slightly shorter chapter this time. I have just begun my thesis work, so i'm a bit stretched for time at the moment, but i wanted to get this online to tide u over

Jaskier stumbles through the trees, running like a hundred cuckolded spouses are on his tail. His clothes still smell of smoke, but he got away. Don’t ask him how (he doesn’t remember how), but he did.

All that matters now is not being caught. The sun hasn’t quite gone down yet, if he can just hold on for another half hour or so, then, _then_ he will ascend and have _words_ with the gods. Vaska couldn’t have thought to specify this Task a little? Just a tiny, itsy-bitsy hint? There will be words and they will be _angry_ —

He trips into a clearing, nearly falling on his face. How hadn’t he spotted it as he was coming up? The campfire alone should’ve given it away, not to mention the chestnut horse that looks up at his inelegant flailing, and the camper who—

Is tall and broad and pale and has eyes the colour of buttercups and dandelions and is oh, so familiar.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s heart drops, then gallops. 

They stare at each other, the bard and his Witcher. (The god and his Witcher?) Of all the things Jaskier had expected to feel when he and Geralt found each other again, this bottomless emptiness was not it. Anger, spite, elation, joy; all those were part of his daydreaming. But he feels… hollow. Like he incapable of feeling anything at all. It’s all gone out of him, his anger, his plans, his well-rehearsed theatrics. 

That’s not really song worthy, is it? What a let-down. He’d planned on milking their reunion for _ages_. Think of the songs he could’ve spun from it!

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, like it’s the only word he knows.

Instead of ordering Geralt to his knees to beg forgiveness, Jaskier closes the space between them in four long strides, nearly tripping into Geralt’s lap. He doesn’t care; he seizes Geralt by the shoulders and pulls him close, almost sobs with relief when Geralt’s arms wrap around him in return. He drops his head in the hollow of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder and breathes deeply. All this happens in the blink of an eye, and suddenly, Jaskier can feel again.

He clutches that undoubtedly un-washed, rank tunic and holds on like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do; buries his face in Geralt’s tangled hair and breathes in the scent of horse and dust and sweat and closes his eyes against the tears that rise up to claim him.

Fuck the Path of Gods. Fuck apologies. He is home at last.

*

(Except that’d be too easy. The next time Geralt curses Destiny for its fickle ways, Jaskier will drink to that, because Destiny is a _bitch._ But that’s not for a while yet.)

*

Renfri ignores the bird that follows her. It’s not as easy as it sounds.

“Screech at me again and I’ll roast you next,” she threatens, turning the spit over the fire as her dinner cooks. The bird chatters inanely back at her from the safety of the high branches. She gestures rudely at it.

She’s running on very little sleep and even less patience. When she does manage to rest, she slips into dreams that leave her either hollow or angry. After the former, she wakes with a name on her lips and a fierce longing in her heart (who the fuck is Julek anyway? If she meets him, she’ll stab him on principle for submitting her to this shit); after the latter, she sees Stregobor in every shadow. Either him, or Geralt of Rivia (which doesn’t bother her quite so much as the former, even if she maintains the opinion that Geralt of Rivia can choke and should she ever cross his path, she’ll be happy to help him do so.)

Funny how dying doesn’t take away your (very reasonable, fuck you, Geralt) grudges. Or maybe she’s just stubborn. She’s a little proud of that.

The bird shrills at her again. You’d think that that sound would fade into the background after months of listening to the same goddamn shrieking, but no, it does _not_. No matter how far she wanders, the bird and its infernal racket follows her. It rudely cuts into her fantasies about ripping Stregobor’s head clean off, which does not help her mood any.

Maybe it would help to seek out some human company; surely, it wouldn’t follow her into a village (except it probably would, because she’s pretty certain that that bird came straight from Hell to torment her). She doesn’t know why she hasn’t tried it yet (she’s waiting for something, but she doesn’t want to admit that to herself). She hunts and she tries to sleep and she puts miles between her and her gravesite. It’s boring, but at least it’s life.

Any kind of life is better than… wherever she was. She doesn’t remember.

She’s had enough time to realize that something in her has changed. Her rage isn’t quite so overwhelming as it used to be. Oh, it’s still there, still a wildfire waiting for the smallest spark, but she can see beyond it now. It’s not all that she is—which is both terrifying and relieving. It means she won’t be consumed by it forever; it means there’s more to her beyond what they did to her, what they tried to make her out to be. (It means she has to figure out where to go once she’s achieved her revenge. Honestly, planning and carrying out a siege is less daunting than contemplating what to do with the rest of her life.)

(She’s still half expecting not to live through it, but also half hoping that she will.)

She turns the spit over the fire again. There’s barely any meat on the small bird she’s caught (and yes, it was an attempt to menace her noisy companion). She’s eaten much worse than an undernourished bird, so really, it’s almost a feast.

When it’s done and she sits down to eat, there’s a rustle in the tree and the bird peeks out. Renfri rolls her eyes and steadfastly doesn’t look at it. If she ignores it, maybe it’ll go away (it has not worked any of the other one hundred and seventeen she has tried it, but let’s not dwell on that).

It perches on a fallen trunk nearby, just outside her immediate reach. Clever fellow. Its vivid, fiery plumage seems all the brighter among the autumn leaves, and its clever, dark eyes study her with what can almost be termed admonishment. As Renfri is not in the habit of being shamed by an unnaturally persistent bird, it doesn’t bother her. Much. Almost not at all. (It bothers her _beyond belief_.)

“What,” she demands through her half-chewed mouthful. “Don’t you have a master you can go bother somewhere else?”

It’s the first time she’s asked that. Usually she just curses at it (or mimics its prattling, but that’s for her and the woods to know and no one else to find out, because gods, did that look stupid.)

The bird puffs up, looking strangely pleased at her question. It whistles a long, high note, follows it with a hard, short sound. Waits a little, does it again. _Shoo_. _Click_. _Shoo_. _Click_. _Shoo-click_. When that gets no response from Renfri, it sighs in a highly theatrical fashion. Tries whistling again, changes its noises a little: _tchoo. Lick._

Renfri tilts her head. That sounds almost like—

_Joo. Lek._

“ _Did you just say ‘Julek’_?”

*

Jaskier should’ve known, but he doesn’t. 

He should’ve noticed that his memory had holes in it; that he couldn’t remember how he’d run from the mob and the stake (that he remembers catching fire instead). He should’ve been wary of the easy way Geralt welcomes him back, how it all falls into place as if they’d never parted in the first place. They wander and wander and wander and the road never ends. Geralt doesn’t say much, that at least lends credit to the whole thing; Jaskier fills the silence with stories, as he used to do.

He should’ve noticed that Geralt doesn’t seem in a hurry to get anywhere. That sometimes, he looks at Jaskier and seems almost puzzled that he’s still around. (Actually, Jaskier does notice the latter, but simply thinks of it as his due. Geralt _should_ feel blessed to be in his presence once more. He’s lucky Jaskier hasn’t started demanding apologies yet, but just he wait; when they get to an inn, he best believe Jaskier will be barricading their door and force him to talk about his feelings. And also Jaskier’s feelings. They are very important feelings and Geralt will bloody well endure it.)

But Jaskier doesn’t notice. 

In his defence, he’s been through an awful lot. This is too perfect a thing to turn away from; him and Geralt, together again, their shoulders bumping as they walk. He isn’t being snapped at, or chased away, it’s not raining, no bothersome witches have shown up to cause trouble, no stupid dragons have tried to meddle. Jaskier wants to stay here _forever_.

“They should still build a statue of me, though. Obviously, I am still a god and I deserve a statue. Also a temple. And money,” Jaskier narrates as they walk.

“Hmm.”

“Don’t sound so doubtful, Geralt, or you will feel my wrath.”

“ _Hmm_.”

“How dare you, sir! I’ll smite you!”

Jaskier has not, as a matter of fact, demonstrated his powers even once. Somehow, that detail slips his mind. He _talks_ a lot about his divine powers, but that’s all he does. Talks and sings and pokes at Geralt. It’s _the best._

“My statue will be veined marble, strategically layered with gold leaf—” _Julek_ “—I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Geralt shakes his head, but he seems to almost be smiling.

_Julek_

Jaskier looks around, unsettled for reasons he cannot articulate. Is it the wind? His mind playing tricks on him? Geralt isn’t bothered, even though he clearly hears it, too. He’s turned gentle eyes on Jaskier and squeezes his wrist. “She’s calling. It’s time to go.”

“What do you mean ‘go’?”

_Julek_

—Jaskier remembers catching fire and all that came after.

*

True death is not for the gods to claim. Death to them is simply restless sleep, a meandering path through Hell that never ends. It is not comfort or joy or particularly pleasant. Jaskier’s brief jaunt during the sixth Trial was a quiet one, the gentlest kind of existence there is for gods in.

This is not Hell, though the path certainly started there. 

Jaskier looks at Geralt and knows that it is _not_ Geralt. Knows that whatever wears Geralt’s face is not a monster, is not to be feared. Knows that he’s looking at something he shouldn’t have access to.

True death wears the face of love, and true death smiles gently as Jaskier is torn from its grasp in confusion. “We’ll meet again,” it says, impossibly, as Hell spits Jaskier back out.

*

Jaskier came into the world screaming up a storm, and he is reborn screaming even louder. Vaska didn’t mention that part either, likely because it is most undignified. Jaskier falls through spheres, unseeing, his body reforming from strands of Chaos, his voice existing for a while on its own, gold and liquid and strong.

Through fire, water, and tree branches, Jaskier falls back down to earth, landing less than gently on his back and getting the air knocked right out of him. He wheezes and says, “That’s another few entries for the trauma log.”

There is a knife jammed under his chin. A brown-haired, beautiful woman peers down at him with her teeth bared. “Where the fuck did you come from? Who are you?”

Jaskier, with divine grace, yells back, “ _Who are YOU_ —no wait, I know you.”

“Is that so?” Princess Renfri demands, not removing her knife. Dagger. Stabby-pointy thing. Look, Jaskier is a bard, not a warrior, if he knows the words for different pointy things, it’s purely because he’s used them in a song before. “Care to elaborate?”

“Care to unhand me?”

“Not really, no. Start talking.”

Jaskier sighs. “Look, I’ve had a really rough day—”

“Oh, boo.”

“Did you just _boo_ me? How dare you!”

“ _Start talking_.”

“Or what? You’ll stab me?”

*

Renfri stabs him.

Jaskier is beyond outraged.

*

It does not get better when the whole story finally emerges—with many a detour, because some details are important and Jaskier is nothing if not a master storyteller. Never mind what Renfri claims the opposite, she’s a cultureless slob who should feel honoured to have been blessed by him.

Renfri does _not_ feel blessed. She is, in fact, really godsdamned offended that he has the guts to be ‘her’ Julek (Jaskier did not know he was called Julek until like, five minutes ago, and frankly, he has _Issues_ with that, but that’s a problem for later), and as for her role in all this, oh, she has a great many non-complimentary thoughts on that, the chief being: “Fuck no, am I gonna be your errand girl!”

“Look, it’s not like I _wanted_ to make you my paladin,” he hedges. He’d rather not get stabbed again; never mind that he’d healed instantly and it had barely hurt at all. Being a god is good for something, at last. “But the choice was taken out of my hands! It’s not like I can put you back—”

“I will _not_ be your servant,” she growls at him. At least she’s no longer holding him at knifepoint, though she hasn’t yet put the knife away. “I will not be _anyone’s_ servant.”

“I get it, I _do_ , but see, it’s not so bad, I’m incredibly amazing, so—STOP STABBING ME WOMAN.”

*

_Far off, in Nazair…_

Geralt spies the marching army from atop a cliff. One never-ending, unbroken line of men snaking through the hills, heading directly north. He watches them for a while, notes their steady, unwavering speed. They’ll be at their destination soon enough, and he can guess what that destination is.

 _Cintra_.

He could walk away right now. Turn his back and never glance this way again. It’s the way of Witchers to ignore the skirmishes of men, but… But. They’re not just marching on Cintra. They’re marching on his Child Surprise, and _that_ does not fall under the ‘no involvement’ rule.

He sighs. He could still walk away; he’s done it before, and it’s worked so far. Surely the child has been better off without him. Besides, autumn has come; he needs to start making for Kaer Morhen now or he’ll have to climb the Trail with snow coming down in torrents, and he’d really prefer not to. He’s got nothing left to delay the journey for. Jaskier is gone. Yennefer is lost to him. All that remains and matters are his brothers and his mentor. They are the ones he should be turning to, the ones that matter.

But. The Child Surprise.

Through Geralt’s leather armour and shirt, his two medallions bump against one another. One worn… not proudly, but visibly, to denote his status and clan; the other a gift never given, a flower preserved in glass and hidden under his clothes (it belongs in the ‘v’ of an embroidered shirt—)

“Fuck,” he mutters and turns north. He’ll do this one thing right and not be too late. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi darlings
> 
> i was hit with some productivity and had time to spare, so i give you: this chapter  
> please note that the tag "it's my fic and I get to decide who gets resurrected" very much applies to this chapter also (dun dun DUN)

“This is why you don’t start out with a paladin,” Vaska tells Jaskier, leaning back against the counter as the tavern descends into chaos, Renfri right in the middle of it. She’s got one of her infernal swords out and is heckling the big… mason? Farmer?—muscular man to take a swing at her. Jaskier buries his face in his hands and sighs.

It’s been a few weeks since he came back to life. After a couple of compromises and a couple of stab wounds, he and Renfri had managed to hammer out a truce. That truce being that Renfri would show up and kill people if he needed it, but otherwise stay out of the whole “fucking stupid nunnery shit”—those aren’t Jaskier’s words. As if he’d ever have _nuns._ Oh, and he’d also maybe, sort of promised to help her track down Stregobor. Mostly because she’d refused to have anything to do with him unless he did so.

“Do you need it in writing, too?” he’d muttered pettily at her. She’d ignored him. He’d looked around. “Now, how the fuck do I get to the Hall?”

“You don’t even _know_ how to go about being a god?” she’d demanded.

“ _I’m new_!”

“Melitele’s tits.”

“Are perfectly lovely, but please, don’t bring her into it—PUT THE KNIFE DOWN, DAMN YOU.”

In the end, Pegaz had saved the day. Jaskier’s emissary had appeared in the middle of yet another bickered argument, once again failing to slow his ecstatic flight and colliding with Jaskier’s face. Jaskier had, of course, forgiven him, cooing over his sweet bird and giving him neck scratches. Renfri had threatened to roast him, and out of pure spite, Jaskier managed to portal himself to the Hall (it took him a few days to figure out _how_.)

Once everything had been put to rights with the gods (Jaskier had yelled. _A lot._ The effect of that was lost when it turned out no one had really known how an ascendance worked in truth; they’d never had a demigod complete the trials before, so his “death” had been as surprising to them as it was to him), he and Vaska sat down to plan for the next few weeks. There were lots to do: spread his cult—not a word Jaskier is particularly fond of, but Vaska insists it’s the right term—get worship going, navigate prayers, on and on and on.

Jaskier had whined, “Why isn’t the telling of my tale enough to count as worship? Don’t tell me they’ve already moved on from ‘famous bard, burned alive with his head held high, cursing them all to eternity’.”

“When has one tale ever been enough to satisfy?”

“It’s not just _one_ tale, it’s several—”

“And besides, _braciszek,_ that’s all what came before. They’re tales of a dead man, and dead men answer no prayers.”

“Then how does faith in saints work?”

Vaska had looked sorely tempted to push Jaskier off a cliff to be rid of his incessant questions, but they’d ended up debating theology for an hour. If it hadn’t been for Tisigaeto’s arrival, they might have gone even longer.

It had been the first time Jaskier saw his mother since his resurrection; unwillingly, he’d searched her face for even a hint of emotion, still as desperate for her approval as ever. Not even as a god can he shed that need, despite having shed so much of his humanity in other ways. Emotions work… strangely, on him now. As deep as ever, but even more fleeting than usual; he’s already forgiven Vaska for not telling him the truth about his ascendance, has already forgotten the horror of burning alive.

“You’re alive,” Tisigaeto had said, looking him over with steely eyes. Jaskier had waited for her to say more, but she’d just walked out.

“I’m choosing to take that as praise,” he’d told Vaska.

“Pretty sure you should.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, she _has_ been enacting blood and horror on the Kreve worshippers who saw you burned at the stake. I suppose you can put that down to your little song of vengeance, that is her area of expertise after all. But she also slapped Kreve himself around while you were gone. Just ripped out his spine and strangled him with it.”

Electing not to dwell on his mother’s peculiarity—though secretly thrilled by this one sign that she at least cared what happened to him just a tiny, itty-bitty bit—Jaskier had turned back to his planning.

Which brings us back to the tavern brawl.

Jaskier sips his beer as chaos descends. As a young god, he is largely invisible and intangible; he may appear out of the corner of someone’s eye, if they’re the more perceptive or spiritual kind, but overall, the only person he can interact with who isn’t a god is Renfri. As a member of his cult, he’ll be visible to her unless he actively chooses not to be—anything else would’ve been impossible. Imagine being a god who cannot be heard by his worshippers. Talk about messy.

Not that being heard by this particular worshipper is turning out any better.

“At this rate, she’s going to get your cult burned down before it’s even been built up,” Vaska continues nonchalantly, stepping out of the way of a brawling trio. Like Jaskier, Vaska is intangible to the humans, but they dislike the feeling of being stepped through.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s a negative in her book,” Jaskier mutters. He should’ve never asked Renfri to spread the story of his ascension. He has no one to blame but himself—she even warned him that she’d be bad at it. Quite a service that was, considering how much she hates being in his debt. But he’d expected her to have just a little bit of grace, just a little bit of charm. She’d charmed bloody Geralt of Rivia, she should be able to win over everyone.

Except Geralt was probably charmed by her complete inability to back down, not so much her beauty and wit, though she has those in spades. Now, that inability is making her start bar fights wherever she goes. Worse: she doesn’t even try to bring Jaskier up before everything goes tits up. The least she could do is yell “ _In the name of Julek, God of Songs_!” before pummelling some creep’s face in. But _noooo_.

How did she ever manage to assemble a ragged band of men to follow her? Jaskier’s heard a great many stories about wiles, sorcery, and all such nonsense, but he’s starting to think that while they’d followed her with fanatic seal, that had been more about her being scary and mean than inspirational. Even now, she burns brightly, her soul visible to Jaskier’s inhuman eyes; could humans see as he can, maybe they’d think twice about trying to fight her. But the Shrike is decades dead, and they mistake her for just another feral mercenary. A pest, and a dangerous one, but just a pest, nonetheless. Nothing to get up in arms over, unless she tries to take over the town.

Bored now, Jaskier goes to collect his paladin. The first times this had happened, he’d refused to wade into it, but now, not even being stepped through faces him. He picks Renfri up by her waist and drags her out of there like a recalcitrant puppy, still spitting curses at the man she was throttling. The fight is still going. Bar fights are like that. It’ll all be over soon, and tomorrow, it’ll be forgotten.

Outside, Renfri has the audacity to round on Jaskier and say, “This is why you should only call on me for murder purposes.”

Jaskier gasps in outrage. “You didn’t even _try_ to talk about me!”

“ _You try randomly starting a conversation about cults, see how far you’ll get!_ ”

*

Four more towns; four more bar fights. This isn’t working.

While Jaskier would not exactly describe what he’s feeling as fatigue, he does grow more… recalcitrant to do anything. With just one worshipper making up his whole cult, and a grudging one at that, he’s not nearly as vigorous as he could be. In the Hall, he’s all energy, songs coming to him faster than he can write them down, weeds sprouting all over. Back with the humans… it’s like he’s blocked.

Renfri doesn’t apologize for failing to spread his story, but Jaskier is pretty certain that it bothers her. When she thinks he isn’t looking, she sneaks worried glances at him. She may not like him that much, but whatever string Jaskier tied between them when he resurrected her at least makes her care for his continued survival, even if she shows that care by being obstinate and impossible to argue with.

“You should just get a proper priest,” she tells him as she makes camp for the night. She doesn’t like being around people, not even if it can get her a locked room and soft bed in a tavern for the night; the failed attempts at getting people to join Jaskier’s cult is her main source of socialization these days. That, and Jaskier popping up to nag at her. “Then this would all run smoothly.”

“You think I haven’t tried that?” Jaskier replies. “Apparently, that’s not just done. Vaska says I’m not allowed to poach any from other cults, and as the only people who might be able to see me clearly other than you are sorcerers, they’d be my only hope. But for them to be my priests, I’d also have to have had a personal connection to them while I was alive—some horseshit rule, I don’t understand it either, don’t ask—and as I’d rather die than face the only sorceress I knew while alive, that’s just not an option.”

“You’d rather wither away instead?”

“I’m not withering.”

“Your edges are getting blurry,” Renfri snaps. It’s her way of showing that she cares. She drums her fingers on the pommel of her favourite sword—because yes, she has a favourite. She wields dual blades; if the god-paladin dynamic didn’t complicate things, Jaskier might have begged her for a kiss, she’s that fierce. (Of course, there’s also the unspoken gulf between them named Geralt of Rivia, but Jaskier has successfully avoided saying Geralt’s name even once since he ascended… out loud, that is. He thinks of him more than he cares to admit.)

He bites out, “They are not,” and turns away to pet Pegaz.

She groans. “Aren’t you supposed to be a famous bard? Weren’t you ever at court? You must have met _some_ mages, someone other than whoever you pissed off—”

“I did _not_ piss her off, she just hates my entire existence for no reason—”

“—or a hedge witch on your travels, _anyone_ , Julek, anyone at all. Unless it’s Stregobor.”

Thank the gods that Jaskier never had the displeasure of his company. Or he might’ve been forced to keep both him and Renfri alive in his service; he might as well just have ended the world instead. He throws himself on the ground, onto a bed of newly sprouted dandelions, and sighs theatrically. He had met magicians of all kinds during his travels with and without Geralt; mages at court, witches in forests, alchemists in old hamlets. But he can’t claim a personal connection to any of them; most of them had barely spoken to him except to request a song.

“There are no other mages?”

“No.”

“Wizards?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Witches?”

“Negative.”

“Fucking druids, for fuck’s sake—”

“No—” Wait. He sits up straight. “Melitele’s tits, I am a genius.”

Renfri makes a face at him. Jaskier kindly chooses to ignore that; he is about to solve all their problems. Or, well, he hopes he is; it all depends on how strict the laws of Chaos and Order are about the whole ‘personal connection’ thing. If they’re really strict, Jaskier’s plan won’t work. But if they leave just the slightest room for interpretation, Jaskier will _make_ it work.

Mutual annoyance counts as a personal connection, right?

“I have just the druid who’ll solve all our problems—”

*

“—mother of _cock_ ,” Jaskier exclaims as his priest-to-be gets stabbed right in front of him. He stands above the druid and the… doppler? That might be a doppler. He’s got his hands on his hips and a pout on his face. What was the druid’s name again? Something stupid. Jaskier really hopes he has another name; he will _not_ be using the name that Geralt had called him in any of his future songs, it’s that bad, but what is it again? Something animal-y, something weird…

“That’s just fucking perfect,” he complains aloud. The druid’s eyes have found him, disbelief glittering even as the spark of life starts to die out. The doppler, now the perfect replica of druid, looks around, trying to see what he sees, but to no avail. Jaskier is invisible to him.

 _What the hell is his name_?

The druid is almost gone. Jaskier panics; he reaches down into his chest, grasping for who knows what. He’s not really certain of what he’s doing, just acting on instinct. His fingers catch on something odd, something he shouldn’t be able to feel, intangible as he is.

When he pulls it out, he can only stare.

The doppler has retreated, walking back to a group of people who’ve calmly watched the murder happen. Jaskier doesn’t pay them too much attention, noting only the Nilfgaardian crest on their armour. Instead, he gently cups the soul in his hands, wonder filling him. The name that so eluded him now fills his mind— _Mousesack_. Ermion of Skellige, the soul tells him wordlessly. Jaskier just pulled out _someone’s soul—_

Wait.

Nilfgaardian crests. Nilgaardians watched Mousesack get killed and didn’t lift a finger. Mousesack, whom Jaskier only knows from the one and only banquet he’s ever attended in Cintra. The banquet where Geralt called the Law of Surprise and was gifted a child. Cintra, where Mousesack and his lord stayed, and Lord Eist wed the Lioness of Cintra.

If Mousesack is _here_ , then where are _they_?

More importantly… how did Nilfgaard get their hands on him? What about Geralt’s Child—

“Oh, fuck. Oh, shit.”

The Nilfgaardians and the doppler have gone, and thank the gods they have, for once again, Jaskier acts on instinct rather than thinking things through. He slaps the soul back down into Mousesack’s chest, keeps slapping, and screeches at him to get up.

“Don’t you dare stay dead! So help me, I will crawl into hell and drag you out myself, don’t think I won’t, I’ve done it before—alright, it was accidentally, but I’m sure I can figure it out, shit, don’t be dead, don’t be dead!”

*

Mousesack’s soul, technically, belongs to Coram Agh Tera. Jaskier never had a claim to him when he was alive, and all who die must pass through the domain of Mother Monstrous on their way to face true death. When Jaskier pulls his soul from his chest, Tera feels it in her mouth, like a loose tooth suddenly falling out entirely.

She could cause a stir, demand that she be given what is hers. Unlike Renfri, the poor, accursed girl, this soul is definitely hers for the taking. Instead, she turns back to her web. She’s interested to see where this goes. Whatever lies in store for the young god, she will not get in the way. She’ll even lend him a little strength to succeed…

*

Jaskier’s power rises in a great, golden burst up his throat; it falls from his mouth in words of command. Sweat drips from him, falling on the grass and sprouting dandelions all around. The wound on Mousesack’s chest knits together, the blood stops flowing, his chest expands with a breath.

Mousesack opens his eyes with a gasp and looks at Jaskier. Blinks. And asks, “… Am I in hell?”

Jaskier considers letting Renfri stab him. “ _Rude_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am :) procrastinating :) my thesis :) 
> 
> timeline-wise, we're moving quickly between Ciri's storyline in Bottled Apetites (S01E05) and Geralt's/Ciri's in Much More (S01E08), and after that, we'll largely move away from the season 1 timelines entirely. I'm not going to be working with the stuff we know will happen in season 2 so far (other than them going to Kaer Morhen), that was never the intention (or even possible until now), so it'll be extremely canon divergent from here on out y'all!

“I don’t understand,” Jaskier says, following in Mousesack’s wake. “No one’s ever taken Cintra before, how did they even get this far north?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention?” Mousesack snaps at him. He’s more concerned with getting ahead of the Nilfgaardians, with getting to the princess— _Ciri_ , her name is Ciri, _Geralt’s child_ is called Ciri—before them. To warn, to protect; his allegiance lies not with Jaskier. This wasn’t thought through _at all_. “They’ve been creeping closer for almost a _year_.”

“In my defense, I was dead for a little while—don’t ask.” Not that Mousesack asks.

If Jaskier seems petulant, it’s because in his heart of hearts, he’s scared. Mousesack is right; Nilfgaard _have_ been making trouble for the North for a while. Not even ascending has kept that news from Jaskier. It’s just that… well, he forgot. Not forgot as in “couldn’t remember he’d heard”, but as in “it slipped his mind”. The news had passed straight through him, heard but not remarked on. It hadn’t had anything to do with him; it hadn’t had anything to do with the things he was focused on. Gods do not get lost in the details, or they’ll never get around to the things that need attention.

And so, Cintra fell, and Jaskier missed it. And this is the consequence.

“I’ll help you,” he promises now. Doesn’t think of the fatigue he’s been battling, or his right sorry state as a god. He’ll work it out; with Renfri and Mousesack on his side, they’ll _make it work or else._

“Good,” Mousesack replies. “Because frankly, I don’t know how to—”

“ _What did you do_?”

Reacting instinctively, Mousesack lobs a fireball at the sudden intruder. Tisigaeto, resplendent in her fury, brushes it aside with insulting ease, then flicks Mousesack’s forehead and drops him where he stands.

Jaskier rounds on her. “What did _I_ do? What did _you_ do! That’s _my_ druid!” 

“ _Do you know what you just did_?”

“Did you kill him? I’m going to be so cross if you killed him—”

“ _Did nothing from your lessons on Order and Chaos penetrate your damn head_?”

“—right after I just resurrected him, that was really hard!”

“That’s because it wasn’t _your_ power, Julek.” That gets Jaskier to shut up. “He was _dead_. Already in Tera’s grasp; if she hadn’t willingly given him up, _and_ lent you her power, it wouldn’t have worked.” She shakes her head. Incensed as she is, her cold eyes seem to burn with blue fire. “Did you even _think_ about the consequences?”

“What consequences?”

Tisigaeto takes a sharp, deep breath. “Exactly.” She easily slings Mousesack’s limp body over her broad shoulder, then grasps Jaskier by the shirt and pulls him along. “You stole from Tera; you used power that was not your own. You stole from _death_. Tera isn’t going to put up a fuss, but true death? Who knows how death might try to balance this out.”

While Jaskier registers the implications of this—and definitely does not panic, at all, except he kind of does—Tisigaeto portals them from one forest to another, to a familiar campsite that Jaskier had left only hours before. Renfri jumps up, sword in hand, but they don’t stay long; Tisigaeto shrugs Mousesack down from her shoulder, says, “You’re in charge of him,” and portals them away before Renfri can start her protests.

Perhaps noticing how pale Jaskier has gone, she says, “We’re going to make this right. We’ll balance it out before true death does.”

He takes heart from that ‘we’. He takes less heart when she shoves him into the abyss.

*

For the third time in just a year, Jaskier finds himself in Hell. A different part of Hell than he’d been before, but it’s still Hell. Tisigaeto’s version of ‘making things right’ is apparently to make him do penance as Tera’s page; it was her power he used, her property he encroached on. It makes sense. If it weren’t for his pressing business in the living world, Jaskier wouldn’t mind it too much; there are worse ways to restore balance. But as it is, he’s really fucking stressed about what might be happening in the real world while he isn’t there to prevent it.

Tera, perhaps sensing his distress, gives him easy work.

“You’ll tend the Web,” she says. “I’ll show you how.”

She teaches him with string and wool, puts him in front of a loom to see what he’s capable of. Which isn’t much—except if the skill she’s looking for is _ruining the loom._ Jaskier can’t have sat in front of it for more than a few moments before she banishes him to a corner to unwind a messy skein of yarn. She makes him do it again, and again, and again, until he stops seething over the time wasted here while Ciri is in danger and starts focusing on delicately untangling the knots until he has one long string.

Deemed ready, he is taken to the Web.

It is… it is breath-taking. Huge beyond belief, a whole sphere of its own, a spiderweb, a tapestry, a cocoon of multicoloured thread; the life of all humanity woven into one, enormous work of otherworldly art. Tera climbs it easily, and Jaskier scrambles after her; the gods seem to think he’ll shed his human countenance at some point, but it hasn’t happened yet. He almost doesn’t _want_ to, because it’s his body, and it may once have been fragile and human, but it’s _his_.

In her godly form, Tera is many, many times his size. He’s gotten used to being towered over.

“You’ll learn the rest from the spiders,” she says, running one, long-fingered hand over a ginormous beast which clacks its terrifying jaws in pleasure. “You’ll pick it up in no time.”

“Tera, I have to go,” Jaskier pleads. It hasn’t worked any of the other times he’s tried, but maybe this time. “I can’t just sit here—”

“And you won’t.” Her tone is kind, but firm. She shrugs. “I don’t know why your mother pushed you towards this rather than let true death restore order, but you’re here now, and you’ll be here until Destiny decides you’re done.”

Jaskier growls and groans and begs some more. But finally, he gets to work.

*

Jaskier loses days—or even weeks, who knows—to Hell. If it weren’t for the burning knowledge that things are surely getting worse in the living world, he’d almost enjoy it. It’s soothing work, and it demands his constant attention.

He learns to read the weave, to untangle threads that have gotten snarled, and to weed out stray bits of ghostly debris. Tera has assured him that he’s not changing the path or fates of anyone; neither she nor he has the power to do so. They are but caretakers.

Indeed, when he touches the threads, Jaskier is driven by instincts he has no name for. Every thread brings a flash of sensation, a taste, a thought, a touch, just a little something that tells him what kind of person it belongs or belonged to. He could get lost in here, chasing stories.

Once, he stumbles on Renfri’s thread and knows it instantly. Red as blood and white as snow, with undertones of iron black. He takes extra care with it; somewhere, maybe Renfri feels a peculiar calm settle on her, lulling her to dreamless sleep.

It is not the only familiar thread he finds.

He’s untangling a knotted mess one day, annoyed with how the bright, green-and-pink thread keeps refusing his attempts to put it to rights. His bad mood is not helped by the feel that this thread is familiar, even if the name eludes him. The impressions it gives off only enhance his frustration; the smell of lilies, a flash of desire followed by sorrow, befuddlement and restlessness and shameful distaste. It’s not until he braids it back correctly, uniting it with other threads, that he recognizes his mother in it.

He realizes it when he grasps another thread to braid back in, and that thread seems to reach for him. Blue and gold, a trace of pinkish red—this is _his_ thread. There’s almost nothing of his mother in him, nothing but that faint trace of pink; instead, he nearly mistakes another thread for being his, too, only noticing the core of cold silver when he looks closer.

Tisigaeto.

Their threads intersecting, back before the start, even when Tisigaeto didn’t want him.

He leaves it behind quickly. It’s too much to contemplate.

Instead, he follows his own thread even as the Web seeks to pull away. He’s not meant to follow his own path, not meant to try and trace his Destiny in the tapestry. Some things even Tera cannot yet stand to read. He does it anyway. So many threads intersect with his, so many lives crossing. He lingers at none, chasing just one thread.

When he finds it, he knows it with just one look.

Golden as the sunset; white as fallen snow; grey as silver and steel. Geralt. Jaskier runs his fingers over it, awed and breathless and unmoored at how tightly it is braided with his own; on his tongue is the taste of a campfire, warm and dry and smoky. There’s a flash of unease when he encounters another thread, green and silver and blue— _the Child of Surprise, the djinn, all of it_ , but it wasn’t Jaskier’s fault, damn it—and shameful jealousy when Geralt’s thread mingles with another, purple and red and deep, deep blue. Bound by Destiny.

Jaskier has to know—

“Your time is up,” Tera says. “Safe travels.”

And Jaskier gets dragged from Hell, swearing up a storm. That’s just _unfair_.

*

“Remember,” Tisigaeto tells him as he’s getting ready to leave the Halls. He doesn’t know why he reappeared here rather than at Renfri’s campsite. It would make this whole portal business much easier if he could just appear in the right place the first time. “The druid’s fate is bound to yours now; and yours is not to chase princesses across the Continent unless she prays for your help.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier says and promptly leaves, Pegaz on his trail.

He’s gotten good at portal-travel; the portals of gods are not nearly as flashy as those of sorcerers, which are like doorways made from Chaos. Gods simply step from one place to another. Renfri is a beacon to him now, easily found even from worlds away, and Jaskier steps into the clearing already speaking.

“The first thing we have to d— _what did you do to him_?”

Renfri, unbothered, keeps cleaning her swords. “Spruced him up a bit.”

Mousesack lies where Tisigaeto dropped him, face down and slumbering. He’s barely visible, covered under a myriad of Renfri’s things; scabbards, clothes, weaponry. She’s using him as a table. There’s even a waterskin balanced on his head.

“That wasn’t what ‘you’re in charge’ meant.”

“Maybe you should’ve left him with a nursemaid then. What was I supposed to do? Tenderly feed him honey and water from a leaf?”

There is no way to answer that that won’t get him shanked, so Jaskier busies himself with digging Mousesack out from under Renfri’s things. Following his mother’s example, he taps his forehead and wills him awake—and is thoroughly surprised when it _works,_ Mousesack coming alive at once.

He also comes alive swinging; if it weren’t for Renfri’s quick reflexes, Jaskier would’ve gotten quite the black eye. How does Jaskier keep finding needlessly violent people to take as his own?

*

Breaking the news that they are not allowed to follow Ciri does not go over well.

“Look away and I’ll do it myself,” Mousesack spits, striding forward. He turns around only seconds later. “Where the hell are we?”

“Redania,” Renfri butts in. She’s hovering very unsubtly at Jaskier’s side, fingers caressing the butt of her sword. “Near the border of Kaedwen.”

Mousesack narrows his eyes at her. “Who are you again?”

“Renfri.” No reaction. She sighs. “Formerly of Creyden. Or Blaviken, I guess, since that’s where most think my story ends.”

“Renfri… Like the princess?”

“Not _like_ the princess. Just the princess. Formerly.”

“But… didn’t you die?”

She shrugs. “Eh. Walked it off.” Jaskier coughs. “With a little unwanted help. Bit like you, I guess.”

Rude.

Mousesack visibly wills his unease away. He has more important things to worry about, mainly the trek from here to Brokilon where the Nilfgaardians had traced Ciri to. Jaskier had found them close by in Brugge; it’s at least a couple of weeks on foot. None of them say that even if gets there, Ciri is unlikely to have remained—unless she’s dead. That’s a worse thought.

“You promised to help,” Mousesack says, turning to Jaskier. “You said—”

“I know what I said. It’s just that… well, technically—”

“He doesn’t know shit.”

“ _Thank you_ , Renfri, that’s not what I meant to say—”

“Well, you don’t.”

“Renfri!” Jaskier rubs his temples. “Look… Mousesack, it’s not so simple—”

“You’re a god, _make it_ simple.”

“I’m a god with _very little traction_ in this world. That’s why I needed you! I can’t just meddle, and don’t give me that look, I am as frustrated as you are. Godhood is _not_ a frolic through the fields, believe it or not.”

He explains the rules as he knows them; there are a lot, and very few make sense. The bottom-line is, he’s been banned from seeking Ciri out. Mousesack is not impressed—and Renfri definitely doesn’t look so either. Jaskier isn’t either, but even if Tisigaeto hadn’t issued this command, he has no connection to Ciri—Mousesack can thank Calanthe for that; Jaskier had been banned from Cintra alongside Geralt—no way to find her.

“And even if I could, I don’t know how! It took days to find you,” he says. “I followed the thread that connected us, and it was only barely viable. I’d have a better chance finding virgins in a brothel than go looking for a princess I’ve never met!”

Mousesack is not appeased. When anger doesn’t get him his way, he resorts to pleading. He’s not above prostrating himself for Ciri; she’s too dear to him. Dignity means nothing when it comes to protecting her. Jaskier feels his frustration as if it were his own.

“I may not be able to help,” he finally says, “but I won’t stop you. Go, if you need to.” He sets his jaw and says wryly, “Destiny can come for my neck. I learned how to dodge it’s grasp from the best.”

“ _Geralt_!” Mousesack barks, startling them all. “You said you’d been able to find me, despite the poor connection? Geralt of Rivia was in Cintra; he was there when it fell. If he’s alive—” the world unravels; the wind picks up. Renfri grasps Jaskier’s wrist, keeps him grounded. “—he’s on Ciri’s trail—”

Renfri knows what the mention of Geralt does to Jaskier; she may not have done so herself, and Jaskier may try to avoid even speaking his name, but the Witcher has left his trace so deep in Jaskier’s soul that, bound as they are now, she knows the gist of what happened between them. She knows what it’ll do to him to tug on that thread and though she says nothing, she conveys her reservations in a single look.

But Jaskier is already running with it; he promised Mousesack he’d help. Fuck the warnings. Ciri must be saved. ( _And_ , a voice whispers, _she is Geralt’s. Even if he never wanted her, she is his. And you, too, are his, despite his best intentions, and yours, and Destiny’s._ )

He reaches inside himself, searching for the thread he’d seen in Hell; ignores the warnings, ignores the fact that Witchers and gods do not go together, and that this is likely to go very, _very_ poorly for him. Gold, blue, and red, twined with gold, white, and silver—

And he is at Geralt’s side.

Jaskier blinks. “I can’t believe that worked, fuck.” Then, “Gods, what happened to you?”

Geralt sits with his back against a tree. It is the only thing keeping him upright. He looks like he’s been through hell, all covered in mud and blood and half-way delirious. His eyes roll, clouded and unfocused; his hands twitch towards nothing. The sight of him is dearer than any dawn.

Jaskier falls to his knees beside him. “Geralt—”

For a moment, Geralt’s gaze flits towards him, seeming to fasten on Jaskier’s form. Jaskier’s breath catches, his heart skips a beat. All the anger, spite, and hurt he’s kept buried bubbles up, followed by love and tenderness, never far from reach. So it is to have your life touched by Geralt; you’ll always want to forgive him, despite everything.

And then, Geralt utterly ruins it by whispering, “ _Yen_.”

“Oh, you bastard.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *procastinates*
> 
> thesis chapter deadline: *looms closer*
> 
> me: *PROCRASTINATES HARDER*

Jaskier returns to the campsite with good news, bad news, and worse news.

The good news is that he’s managed to find Ciri (or, well, Pegaz had, and he’s watching over her now from a distance); she and Geralt are but a few miles apart, and Ciri is holed up safe and warm in a farmhouse. It’s about the best outcome they could’ve hoped for.

The bad news, of course, is that Geralt himself is not… quite with it, at the moment. Even overlooking his injuries, he’s not in any state of mind to look for or after Ciri. It’s become quite obvious that Geralt hadn’t actually been able to see Jaskier; he’d just reacted to whatever figment of his imagination had danced across his mind, calling out for Yennefer, for Renfri, even, and someone called Visenna. (Jaskier is not at all offended that Geralt doesn’t call _his_ name, except he kind of is.) At least Geralt is being looked after by a kindly, if irreverent, man.

As for the worse news…

There’s a battle happening at the border to Sodden. Jaskier can see the fires raging from here; with how close they are to Ciri, she’ll be able to see it too. Even worse: the battle is against Nilfgaard. They’re too near, only kept at bay by a by-now beyond-raggedy band of mages. Jaskier doesn’t get close, seeing it through Pegaz’ eyes as the firebird races past. Yennefer is there, high atop a watchtower. Jaskier’s mood sours; of course Geralt is able to sense her across miles. All they’ve been through and still he calls for her. Seriously, what does Jaskier have to do for Geralt to call for him like that? _Die_?

Jaskier relays it all to Mousesack and Renfri, leaving out the mention of his own feelings on the matter. It’s entirely unlikely that those feelings aren’t present in his tone of voice, but there’s nothing he can do about that.

Mousesack sighs in relief, sitting down heavily. “She’s alive.”

“And safe.”

“For now,” Renfri mutters.

“No pessimism allowed in the camp, Renfri.”

“It’s not pessimism, it’s realism.” She’s packing up. Why is she packing up? “You said the mages are only just holding their own, but Nilfgaard isn’t slowing down. How long before they break through?”

Jaskier rubs his face. His tone is bitter. “Look, it hurts to say this, so you better appreciate it: with Yennefer of Vengerburg on their side, the mages will make it. I may not like her, but her capabilities were never in doubt.”

Renfri harrumphs and keeps packing. When Jaskier finally deigns to ask her what that is all about, she says, “The mages are gathered at Sodden. Maybe Stregobor is there, so that’s where I’ll go, too. Giddy up, godling. It’s time to learn how to portal with company.”

*

As such an endeavour is easier said than done, Jaskier does not, in fact, learn how to portal with company. While he’s successfully done so with Pegaz, it turns out that that feat was only possible because Pegaz is an extension of Jaskier himself. Renfri argues that she should be, too—did he not raise her from Hell, twine their destinies? Is Jaskier not the keeper and lord of both her and Mousesack? To which Jaskier snipes back that yes, he is, but that doesn’t mean he gets to order the laws of the universe around.

(And yes, he is disappointed about that, too. The Trials made him seem much more powerful than he has turned out to be.)

Still, they keep at it until morning. At one point, he asks Mousesack why _he_ doesn’t just open a portal; Mousesack claims that that’s not anywhere near his wheelhouse of abilities. “I’m a druid,” he says. “Portals are for mages. The mere act of opening a portal takes unfathomable strength and skill, never mind keeping it stable. I’ve met mages who could even project themselves across miles. But again: not something I can do.”

It’s an exercise in futility. Renfri gets frustrated, which doesn’t help. Mousesack tries to tell Jaskier about the principles of magic as he knows them, which _also_ doesn’t help. He and Mousesack will never approach Chaos the same way, so why the lecture? (Jaskier senses that Mousesack is mostly talking to keep himself from pacing fretfully, which is the _only_ reason Jaskier doesn’t snap at him.)

When dawn breaks, Jaskier sits bolt upright.

“Ciri’s on the move,” he reports, vision flickering between what’s in front of him to what Pegaz sees. “No, no, no, no—”

He portals himself to Pegaz’ side, just in time to see the flash of her Cintran blue cloak disappearing between the trees. From the south, up the road, comes a wagon, lead by a familiar man. In the wagon, Geralt is only just coming back to himself, still a little foggy, but he looks much better than he had the night before. If still a sweat-soaked, bloody mess.

“Geralt, she’s in the trees…” Jaskier calls, waving his arms around.

Geralt still can’t see or hear him. Or at least, he doesn’t react when Jaskier flutters near, or when he cusses him out for not listening, for being a dolt, for being an insensitive bastard—that last one may not be appropriate given the situation, but never mind that. Something does pull at Geralt though, making him jump out of the wagon and head toward the trees. Destiny; it must be.

Because he stays, Jaskier gets to see a sight he’d never thought he would: Geralt united with his Child Surprise. Though it does not— _cannot_ , not anymore—affect him personally, Jaskier’s heart bubbles with joy and relief when Ciri runs into Geralt’s arms. The world breathes a sigh of relief as Destiny gets its way yet again. The sun shines a little brighter; the lingering smoke in the air doesn’t seem so heavy.

Geralt’s expression is one of awe; he holds Ciri like he can’t quite understand how something so lovely has come to him, like he’s found not just her but a piece of himself that had been lost. Though he stands tall and strong, there’s a stagger to his posture. He’s unmoored, uprooted. And yet, at last, exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Jaskier’s heart is breaking and mending all at once. “Don’t push her away,” he warns, standing near and yet apart. He’s intruding, even if they cannot perceive him. “Just… for the love of all that’s holy, don’t lie to yourself this time. Here w— _you_ are. It’s time to stop running.”

He takes one last good look at Geralt; takes comfort from the healing scrapes and sharp gaze.

And for what he _knows_ is not the last time, Jaskier leaves Geralt’s side.

*

There’s a single dandelion near the place where Geralt finally finds Ciri.; it feels a bit like Jaskier smiling at him. He’s still woozy and sore, fatigue in every limb from his body fighting off the infection. He can’t believe Ciri is here, in his arms, that she ran to him and he caught her. She smells of road dust and salt, sweat and panic—the latter being a lingering scent, soaked into her clothes.

He sighs with relief, thankful that he finally did something right.

And then Ciri asks, “Who’s Yennefer?”

Geralt only barely smothers a groan. Fucking Destiny. That question is as clear a sign as any that he’s got more work to do to make up for his mistakes.

But that’s for later. Even with his nightmares lingering in the back of his mind, visions of Yennefer gone from the battlefield, of her comrades calling for her, fearing the worst… Ciri has to come first. He’s all she has. (Gods have mercy, Geralt is _all she has_. What a mess, what a shit fate. (What if _he_ did this, what if his refusal to see her is what—but then, Calanthe shares the blame for that, Geralt can’t undo it, he has to move forward).)

He’ll do right by her and Yennefer both. He _must_.

He picks the dandelion as they leave, tucks it clumsily into his pocket.

*

With Ciri and Geralt united at last, Destiny fulfilled, Mousesack has no loyalties left to tether him to the life he once had. Calanthe and Eist are dead—Mousesack doesn’t seem to truly realize this until several weeks into his new life. Renfri drags him to a tavern and watches over him from the shadows, not even instigating a fight, while he drinks himself into a stupor. She rudely wakes him up the next morning and demands that they get going, no, she doesn’t care that he’s hungover, _get moving._

For some inscrutable reason, she seems to enjoy the druid’s company. (It may be that she’s desperate for _any_ company other than Jaskier’s, because rudeness like that would be just her style). Or it may simply be that Mousesack neither fears nor desires her; they simply co-exist. In any case, she stays travelling with him, herding him along the road.

They’d headed south-west for a couple of days, until Jaskier—via Pegaz—had found that Stregobor hadn’t been at Sodden. The battle is over, most of the mages and their tiny army are dead or severely wounded, and Nilfgaard has retreated rather than face Temeria, who’d finally arrived at the battlegrounds. Though who knows how or when they’re plotting to strike back.

With Stregobor’s location unknown, they’ve taken to just following the road, going in the opposite direction of Geralt and Ciri. After many a conversation between Jaskier, Vaska, and Mousesack, the latter has accepted his new responsibilities as priest—or high priest, really, seeing as he’s the only one, and so he gets to call himself whatever the fuck he wants to. Jaskier doesn’t care as long as it works.

And it does. Somehow, they pull it off.

At first, it doesn’t register. Mousesack isn’t nearly as blunt as Renfri, doesn’t start theological discussions in taverns, get into barfights, or ruin someone’s day by going, “hello, lads, wanna join my cult?” Instead, he plays to his strengths; he’s rather likeable, if a bit of a bastard who has no appreciation for style (that statement has nothing to do with how many times he’s already insulted Jaskier’s clothes, it’s _a fact_ ), and he has a way of drawing people to him. As the centre of attention, he tells stories, spreads rumours. Jaskier—or rather, Julek—doesn’t always feature.

Except when he does.

“That’s not what I heard,” Mousesack says one day, when a group of villagers get to talking about _Toss A Coin,_ prompted by the bard in charge of entertainment for the evening _._ They’d heard Jaskier was dead. “I heard he got away.”

“And how would he have gotten away?” they laugh.

Mousesack shrugs as if the reasons don’t really matter. It only makes them want to hear more. “Must have the gods on his side. Or maybe… well. He did keep pace with a Witcher all those years.” He refuses to say anymore, and it whets their appetite to be denied an ending to the tale.

It’s little things like that. Sowing doubt about Jaskier’s fate. Sometimes, when they happen upon settlements where the market is lively and the people are curious, he’ll laugh off any attempts they make to learn his name. Mousesack the druid is no more. “I am but a humble servant,” he’ll say. “Following in the footsteps of the Prince of Unwanted Things.”

And suddenly, Jaskier starts to hear the whispers.

They tickle in at first, not real prayers, just off-hand mentions. Whatever charm Mousesack claims to have, it _works_. Jaskier’s name here, his title there. A blessing upon a fellow traveller, an impossible story shared around a campfire. And suddenly, a mother tells her child a story at night, tells her that she heard this story from Julek himself, long ago, when he’d come to the town. “His voice was sweet as spring, honeyed and smooth.” Suddenly, two lovers invoke the Prince of Weeds and Unwanted things to protect their blossoming love. And Jaskier stands at the mother’s shoulder, forming the words with her, making it all up as he goes along. He draws the shadows closer around the lovers, keeps them from being seen. In his wake are dandelions and buttercups, little yellow flowers that get trampled or fed to farm animals.

Though it is but trickles of worship, nothing compared to the festivals and temples that the other gods enjoy, the God of Songs and Stories has come into his own.

*

And then, of course, there are the things that simply refuse to work out. That thing mainly being Geralt, because when did Jaskier’s annoyances last centre on something that didn’t have to do with Geralt of fucking Rivia?

Yes, yes, yes, Jaskier _knows_ he’s not supposed to concern himself with Geralt of Rivia anymore—especially not when the man can’t even perceive him. Nor can Ciri, despite the strange buzz of power around her. But Jaskier was never very good at following orders, especially not when he disagreed with said orders, and so, he looks in on them… maybe once or twice a day. Just when he can spare the time in between worshippers and the music that drips from his lips and fingers.

(Yes, he’s well aware that it’s pathetic, but he can’t seem to help himself.)

Of course, there’s also the little nugget of information that Vaska had forgotten to relay, and which Jaskier has finally become aware of. That information being that _Geralt_ is the sole reason that Jaskier had become a god. (Okay, so Renfri pulled him out of Hell, _thank you, Renfri_ , but without Geralt that wouldn’t even have been possible.)

“Didn’t I mention that?” Vaska had said while Jaskier had tried not to yell at them. Which he did not succeed in. “Well, I must have forgot. Though in my defence, when you came back, you yelled a lot. Kind of like you’re doing now.”

“Is there anything _else_ you’ve forgotten to tell me?” Jaskier had asked snippily.

Vaska had shrugged. “Not unless your libido has been troubling you, no.”

Jaskier had blinked. “… Care to elaborate on that? Why is that important? Have I become a non-sexual god? _That is not what I signed up for, Vaska_!”

“Calm down, that’s not what I meant. You just haven’t seemed to have any interest in coupling with anyone. Your reputation as a hedonist is well-known, even to us gods, but I’ve not yet seen proof of it. I figured it was just one of the side effects of your… slightly strange transformation.” Meaning Jaskier’s failure to shed his human likeness.

“Well…” Jaskier had had a great many excuses ready to go, the foremost being that the only ones he could communicate with were the other gods and Renfri and Mousesack. None of the gods had struck him as viable candidates for a good tumble—apart from a few of the more… erotic divinities, such as Huldra, but there was a rather large chance that she’d consume him afterwards—Renfri would murder him if he tried, and Mousesack? Honestly, Jaskier’s not quite sure that that wouldn’t be an abuse of power on his part. Of course, he could have sex as gods do, twining his soul to others, but without consent that option was iffy as fuck.

“Yes, yes, but it’s not like you’d actually die if you went to bed with Huldra,” Vaska had said. Their eyebrows had pulled together as Jaskier sputtered some more. “Julek… do you not want sex? Because that’s perfectly natu—”

“That is not the case, trust me, I’ll elaborate on my daily pleasure routine if that’ll soothe your worries,” Jaskier had interrupted.

“But not with others?”

“Yes, with others! Just not… any of them.”

“Oh. Oh, Jaskier.” Vaska rubbed their brow. “Shit, I thought you’d left that behind.”

“Left _what_ behind?”

“The bond you created between yourself and the Witcher.”

“ _What_ bond?” Jaskier had laughed, a little callous and a lot desperate. “There’s no bond between Geralt and I, especially not _that_ type of bond… much as I might once, _once_ , have wanted it, but even then, I was never chaste with my body or affections, and—”

“You’re not a man, Julek. You’re a god, and gods—shit, you should’ve _told_ me—”

“Told you _what_?”

Vaska threw up their hands, a habit they’d picked up from Jaskier. “Whose face do you picture when you are alone? Whose voice do you hear, whose arms do you long for?” When Jaskier had remained mute, they’d added, “You’ve bound yourself to him, freely and without expectation.”

A meltdown and a half later, during which Jaskier had grown so many weeds that even Dana Meadbh, the Lady of the Forest, had told him to tone it down, Vaska had at least promised Jaskier that the bond between him and Geralt wasn’t permanent.

“Such things require attention, or they’ll fade,” Vaska had said, awkwardly patting Jaskier’s shoulder as he paced around a weed-filled meadow. Had his mothers had such a bond? Not that it matters, but any thought is better than his problems right now. “Don’t give it any and it’ll go away on its own… in a decade maybe. Sorry, but when gods fixate, they _really_ fixate.”

So here Jaskier is, more than just in love with Geralt, because apparently, he’s even more of an heartsick idiot than first assumed; he kind of owes Geralt his life (or at least some sign that he’s not dead, fuck, that conversation really needs to be had, maybe he should get Mousesack to send a letter?). With all the revelations hitting him hard, he’s even started to forgive Geralt, much as he wants to hold onto his anger. Now that he knows the bond is there, he can feel it in his chest, tugging him ever closer to Geralt. Anger is all he’s got to ensure that it doesn’t become permanent.

After all, it’s not like anything has changed from the first time Jaskier realized to this latest foray into being stupid over his Witcher. When he’ll finally be able to speak to Geralt again—and he _will_ , Jaskier will make it so—Geralt still won’t feel the same. Jaskier can handle this. He’s got this. Completely.

Right until he arrives at Geralt and Ciri’s campsite and finds it has grown to include a number of other people, one of them being Yennefer. He promptly leaves in a huff, not even taking notice of the other people in their camp, or even the sorry state of Yennefer herself.

He’s a god. If he wants to mope and annoy Mousesack and Renfri with his songs, he damn well will.

Except when he arrives at their camp, yet another problem presents itself.

“Who’s that bloody man?” he asks, gesticulating wildly to the stranger sprawled on Mousesack’s bedroll, gored through. A stranger with cat’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)  
> guess who


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a while in the making. life, ya know (all good things tho, so don't worry!!)  
> enjoy!!

Geralt has been stretched thin over the past few days; between finally finding Ciri and planning their trek for Kaer Morhen, he’s barely had the time to rest—and that was before encountering the small group of injured magicians. Ciri doesn’t trust them; she barely trusts Geralt, knowing nothing about him except that they are each other’s Destiny. Destiny can’t build a life, can’t stand in for safety or love; it is but the foundation of things to come. All those years Geralt avoided her should’ve been spent trying to get to know her. But he can’t do anything about that, can only try his best now.

He just hopes it’s enough. 

If he can just get her to Kaer Morhen. The old keep isn’t much, but it’s the safest place he knows—despite everything that’s been done to him there, despite the memories that haunts him, the things he’s learned not to look to closely at. But where else could he take Ciri? In a perfect world, he could take her right back to Cintra and her grandmother’s arms. In a better world, he might be able to make for Oxenfurt and claim sanctuary there… but what is there for him in Oxenfurt now? Besides emptiness that he doesn’t want to face.

Going to Yennefer hadn’t even occurred to him. She’d made herself more than clear, and though his heart and soul reaches for her still, he’d wanted to respect that. It’s one of the reasons he’d hoped to be able to skirt Sodden. That, and the fact that the field was still smoldering softly, blood and death scattered everywhere. But he’d been drawn him there, towards Yennefer, his fevered dreams unsettling him. He’d just needed to make sure that she was alright, that she was _alive…_

She is, more or less. Drained and in pain, but alive—the former being the only reason she hadn’t cursed him on the spot. Her displeasure at his appearance was evident, but she’d not asked him to leave. Maybe he should’ve. But here they are.

Geralt is intently aware of Yennefer. Ciri is too; though she avoids the small cluster of mages and eyes them warily from Geralt’s side, her gaze keeps getting snagged on Yennefer. When Geralt had first said her name, gasped it with relief, Ciri had fixed her eyes on her, and the wondering look hasn’t gone down yet. Geralt knows the feeling. Even knowing that Yen would hate him for it, he cannot help but watch her, watch _out for_ her.

It’s why he can read her face even beneath the blindfold she now wears to keep the pain of magical exhaustion at bay. It doesn’t afflict her eyes, as such—she has headaches that could crack mountains, and visual input makes them worse. The blindfold is just a precaution, but even suddenly movement and noise can set her off. That’s why Geralt stills and tenses when Yen sits up suddenly and tilts her head carefully, listening for something.

She asks, “Is Jaskier here?”

Ciri looks at Yen, then at Geralt. “Who’s Jaskier?”

Geralt says nothing, stands frozen. The taste and smell of smoke rises in the back of his throat, cooking meat, like suckling pig, followed by bile. Had it been anyone but Yen and Ciri saying his name, he might not have had the restraint to keep from storming off. “No,” he says in reply to Yen’s questions.

Before he can get around to _try_ and answer Ciri’s, Yen goes, “Are you _sure?_ I thought I felt him—”

“I’m sure,” he snaps. He’s never snapped at her before. Not even on the mountain, not even with the Djinn. Yelled, yes, but that was mostly to be heard over the din, and she’d been yelling, too.

His tone does not go unnoticed. Not by Yen, who cocks her head dangerously. Not by Triss, who’s been carefully flexing her burned hands off to the side. Not by Tissaia, who’s been trying to keep her former students from succumbing to their injuries. And not by Ciri, who stills, and instant shame fills him. She may as well have flinched.

He forces himself to speak more softly, to keep the growl of sorrow from his voice. Good thing he’s got practice, after all these years of loss. His mother, too many of his brothers, Renfri… He says Jaskier’s name with barely a stutter, answers Ciri first. “Jaskier was… my friend. We used to travel together.”

Her green eyes pierce through him, too clever by half. “But not anymore?”

_Say it. Tell her. Tell them all_. _Say it, damn you_. “Not anymore.” He looks at Yen, wishes he could meet her gaze. But maybe it’s better this way; she had not been Jaskier’s biggest fan. “He died. Almost a year ago.”

He refuses to say more. Ciri doesn’t push him, probably because her own losses are still too close to speak of. Yennefer, however, tries to glean more from him, but she quickly grows tired—as she so often does these days. Her Chaos takes its toll on her, even when she’s not actively using it. The price of letting it all out during the battle, or so Tissaia says.

The mages step cautiously around him as they make ready to depart. He’d not considered this step when he first approached them; he’d only thought to check on Yen. But he can’t just leave her here—nor Triss, whom Geralt almost calls a friend, too. They’ve finally grown strong enough to travel, even if they’re both still wounded. Yen persuades Triss to take her place on Roach, which Triss only half-heartedly protests. Yen claims she’ll be fine walking (she’ll change her mind later, and they’ll switch). Ciri stays at Geralt’s side, hovering just out of reach, her back never turned on the sorceresses.

“This would work better with more accurate coordinates,” Tissaia says bluntly to Geralt. “If you’d just tell us—”

“No.”

Nothing she says will make him reveal more. In fact, if she keeps nagging at him, he’s going to stop saying anything at all. He’s already breaking the rules by taking Yen and Triss with them to Kaer Morhen (not that Yen would’ve just let him leave after sensing Ciri, and especially not after wrangling the whole story from Geralt, her own feelings be damned. This took precedence, for both of them). Still, the keep has been off-limits to everyone but Witchers for years, since the sack where so many students and teachers died, and all the mages besides. He’s… worried about breaking that rule now. To bring them all there. For them to _see_ what he and his kind have become.

The sack had been the beginning of the end for his kind. There are no more Witcher schools, only Witcher relics, crumbling, patched, faded. Someday, it’ll all be forgotten. And Geralt will, too. ( _I’m going to sing you into history, Geralt, just you wait! Everyone will know your name—_ )

But Kaer Morhen is the place he calls home. He’s unwanted everywhere else.

Tissaia opens the portal with the help of another sorceress, an elfin blonde whose cold eyes puts Geralt on edge. He feels as if he knows her, though he can’t pinpoint from where or how. It doesn’t matter; he’s kept his distrust quiet and avoided her, keeping Ciri clear of her, too. The mage has keen, sharp eyes, even weary from battle and injury. Sharp _and cold._

Geralt braces himself. He’s never liked portals, but needs must. It’s been one thing to plan a trek across the Continent with a young girl who can move perfectly fine on her own, another to be bringing two sorceresses with depleted magic reserves and healing injuries along with them. The portal will take them to Kaedwen, and they’ll make their way from there, climb the Trail to safety, reinforce the walls of the Keep.

(In his head, the future unfolds; one task after the next, each slow dusk bringing new enemies in the darkness. Tomorrow hasn’t happened yet, and yet it weighs on him. He’s never felt so old before. Like trying to tread water while already caught in the kelp below the waves.)

He leads Roach after him, holding onto Ciri with his other hand. Yen walks right behind him, holding onto Triss’ skirts. Her lips twitch with each jarring step, the pain behind her eyelids coming in bursts.

The portal swallows them like a monstrous gullet and Geralt’s stomach rolls. He will never learn to endure them gracefully.

*

“Who’s that bloody man?” Jaskier keeps asking, dancing around Mousesack and the concussed-looking, cat-eyed stranger. “Where did he come from?”

Mousesack, eager to not be in charge of their trio for once, points at Renfri. “She’s the one who found him, I’m just trying to keep him alive.”

Renfri shrugs and points. “Found him somewhere over there. He’d probably fallen—well, _been pushed_ —off the cliffside, going by his injuries.”

“What are we supposed to do with him?”

“Well, I figured he’d be mighty appreciative of some healing, and would probably throw a few prayers your way—”

“He won’t,” Jaskier cuts in, watching the stranger’s eyes. There’s gold in them, but they’re mostly dark amber. Not a Wolf, but Jaskier would know his kind anywhere still. Especially because, as a god, he can feel the difference in him, his not-quite-humanness. “He’s a Witcher.”

Renfri blinks. “No, he’s not. He doesn’t have a medallion—”

“I’m telling you, he’s a Witcher. He’s eyes—Geralt’s pupils are slit, too, in the right light.” And then there are all the scars, besides, and the armour, and the weapons still strapped to him—

“This is all very fascinating, but could we hold off the quibbling until we know if he’s going to live or die,” Mousesack snaps. He’s holding the Witcher together with bloody hands and strips of cloth. They really ought to travel with better kits for emergencies like this. Renfri is doomed to earn a stab wound to the face at some point, might as well be prepared.

“Who’re y’talkin’ to?” the Witcher slurs, eyes vaguely trying to focus. His voice is rough and wet from coughing up blood. “What’s—”

Jaskier throws his hands up. “What am I supposed to do? Witchers are outside my purview!”

“Then I pray for some godsdamned assistance to save him myself, o lord, and I’ll sacrifice in your name!”

“As if that’s going to—wait. That’ll do it.”

Power rises in Jaskier’s throat. Instinctively, he goes to hover over Mousesack’s shoulder, his hands keeping the druid steady as he works to stop the bleeding. Jaskier feels the pull between them, his strength leaking into Mousesack and further on into the Witcher. Mousesack isn’t a healer, not of humans, anyway; but with Jaskier’s help, he closes the wounds up. They don’t vanish entirely, leaving deep scars that’re sure to be sensitive to the touch, but it’s more than the Witcher would’ve had otherwise.

When they’re done, the Witcher has passed out. At least he’s only sleeping, not dying.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Jaskier confesses.

“Me neither,” Mousesack admits.

“Pretty standard for us, isn’t it?” Renfri adds, standing over the sleeping Witcher. After a minute, she stalks off, gathering her things. “I’ll scout the area. See if I can find whatever did that to him. Stay here.”

From there, they can do nothing except wait.

*

_Atop a cliff, some miles off…_

A medallion lies half-hidden in the dust. It’s round and embossed with the image of a hissing cat, made of steel. The links of the chain like broken and scattered, and the medallion itself has bloodstains on it, a quiet witness to the violence that took place there.

No Witcher would ever leave their medallion behind, not if they were still alive.

Renfri doesn’t find the medallion; she doesn’t go to the top of the cliff, which towers above her. From this side, it’s too steep to climb, not worth it. If anything is still looking for the Witcher back in the camp, it’ll have come down from there. So she leaves the cliff behind and makes sure no one has tried to approach them, and so, the medallion is left behind. 

But someone does find it.

Someone who picks it up with trembling hands. Who deduces what happened here from the footprints in the dust, the smell of blood and violence and desperation still lingering. Whose mutated senses allow him to follow the scent trail off the cliff, the path painted in blood spatters along the cliffside as the Cat Witcher fell, trying to hold on.

Someone who likes to claim that he has no heart has found the medallion.

And that non-existent heart stops in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](https://purpurred.tumblr.com/)!


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